


And the Work, It Was Fun

by sjnt



Series: The Face of the Plateau [2]
Category: As You Are (2016)
Genre: A deep dive into the 1990s, Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Bisexuality, Canon Queer Relationship, Coming of Age, Drugs, F/M, Fluid Sexuality, Friendship, I love counterfactuals, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Female Character of Color, POV Multiple, Parent-child relationships, Period typical attitudes and language, Plot With Porn, Second Chances, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-05-08 14:00:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 76,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14695665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sjnt/pseuds/sjnt
Summary: In which I spend many, many words giving Jack and Mark a chance to, this time, get it right.Or, a no easy epiphanies coming of age story for three teenagers who hateCatcher in the Rye.





	1. The Woods

**Author's Note:**

> The story is complete. 
> 
> Technically, it stands alone, but it reads better if you start with the previous fic/part one of the series - A Bucket and a Mop.

The sun burns off a patchwork quilt - lemony orange, red grey, lilac white – of morning clouds, leaving a thick flannel sheet of blue blue sky in its wake. Light filters through mile high leaves onto his cheeks, his lips, his forehead. The wind drops from a shout to a whisper.

He slumps against a tree, hair an oily slick covering the lump that yesterday was his eye. Hands nestle close the baby bird he's keeping safe. He’s not warm. He’s not cold.

A branch creaks, tumbles to earth. An animal stumbles and shuffles, crunches and crashes through the grass, between the trees. Mark startles, slackens.

His eyes slip shut. He rests.

A burning, boiling swarm of wasps (locusts, birds, bullets) zip past. He feels them thwack and slap, hears them boom and strike. Their seething reverberates through his skull and down his spine.

He’s screaming.

Jack’s sobbing.

He’s running.

Jack’s cowering.

Jack tries to escape, but trips and lands flat on his back.

He's on top of him. He’s never been more sober in his life.

He straddles Jack. Snaps his legs closed with shins and feet. Delivers a couple of cracks to his face, to reassure him that everything's going to be _ok_. His right elbow carves a hole in his diaphragm. His left hand grips tight the muscles under Jack’s jaw. Thumb and fingers slot neatly below his ears; heel fits snugly in the hollow of Jack’s neck (tender and squishy, like that spot on a baby’s head). He pushes down. He pushes up. He _squeezes._

Even if he wanted to stop throttling Jack, he couldn't. And he absolutely doesn’t want to. Not until he extracts every ounce of breath from him. Removes the bovine expression from his face. Ensures he never again has to see those eyes looking back at him.

All that love, and what does Jack do? Try to end him, since he can’t have him.

Moments ago Jack was resigned to his fate. He’s reconsidered. He struggles. His arms flounder, undecided if they should start with Mark’s left or right hand, unable to stop either.

His gun. His hand. He arcs it up.

Jack struggles with renewed vigor. "Please don't," he croaks. Rasps a barely discernible, "Mark Mark Mark."

He pales and scrabbles off Jack, tosses his gun away. _The safety’s on, the safety’s on_ , _the safety’s on._

He sits. The crest of his righteous fury recedes, leaving behind nothing but damp, muddy ambivalence.

Jack continues to lie in the dirt. His tears cascade, mix with the blood that dribbles from a cut on his forehead. Radishes bloom on his cheek. Mushrooms sprout around his eye. His neck...looks like someone choked the shit out of him. 

“Fucking clean yourself up, Jack.”

Jack yanks the end of Karen’s dress and presses it against his cheek.

He sighs. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Jack ponders the question.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“No! No, you stupid, fucking asshole.”

There’s nothing to bring up other than a bottle of cough medicine, but once he starts barfing it doesn’t end until his stomach's in the grass. When it’s finally over he feels marginally less like road kill; flops on his back and drifts off once again.

He returns to consciousness. Words come out of his mouth. Words come out of Jack’s mouth. As they’re spoken he forgets them.  

Mark squints at the sun, directly overhead, glaring down at them. How long have they been here? What time is it?

He must have said it out loud. Jack replies tonelessly.

“It’s almost one.”

Did he think, when he left the house this morning, that today would be the day he died?

Maybe.

But he’s still here. Which leaves him to wonder – what the fuck does he do now?

********

Mark says “I wish you were a girl,” and Jack has had enough. No more. He’s finished. It's over. He's done done done. But no, he hasn’t hit his limit; he’s not even close. He can still be shat on by Mark, humiliated and dismissed by him so much more. Fifteen minutes later he’s in his mom’s dress and lipstick, hoisting Mark out of the deep hole he’s fallen into. Mark’s near the surface, almost there. Until he kisses him and loses his grip on him. Until he kisses him and Mark yanks his hand from his, giving him the finger as he falls further down.

Mark’s furious, contemptuous. Straight. He pushes him and sneers, tosses his jacket at him and stumbles to the bathroom. Jack sits on the floor and wipes off the lipstick. He’s alone, alone, alone.

He buries his nose in Mark’s jacket. Inhales the familiar scent of weed and cigarettes, armpit and greasy hair that’s objectively gross, but it’s Mark. A parting gift. He puts it on, over the dress, collapses on his rug and there’s peace.

Mark hauls him off the ground, presses a gun into his hand. Jack follows him out of the house, down the driveway, through the clearing. Into the woods. He stares at his back. He’s with him but alone, alone, alone. He swigs continuously from his lifeline as he walks. As he staggers. As he falls on his ass and stares up at the sky.

A light, warm and tasty as egg yolks, streams through the canopy. This could be what heaven looks like, what it feels like. His mind, his spirit, float free. He hears, impossibly high in the treetops, invisible birds singing to each other, singing in chorus. Singing to him. They’re better than angelic hosts, preferable to harps and cherubs. 

A branch snaps, and he flies off the grass. He isn’t in heaven. He’s in the woods behind his house. Mark has a gun. Mark gave him a gun. Mark is out there with a gun and a fantastic aim. He is alone, a useless piece of shit with a terrible aim, an incompetent who can’t hit the side of a barn unless he stands ten feet in front of it. He has to get ahead of this situation. He runs like a fox, finds a tree trunk and crouches behind it. He’s motionless, silent. Alert. His breath is steady and easy. Natural. Like Mark taught him.

He aims. 

_I’m your enemy?_

He closes his eyes.

 _Fuck_

He inhales. 

_You_

He exhales.

_Mark_

He fires.

Then Mark’s hitting him, crushing the breath, the life out of him, his face a rictus of pure rage. Blood oozes. He wheezes for mercy. There’s not enough air in his lungs to scream for it. Mark skitters away from him and throws both guns in the underbrush.

"Isn’t this what you wanted?" 

"No, you stupid, fucking asshole. _No._ "

Mark gets on all fours and pukes his guts out, strings of red violet cough syrup mixed with greenish yellow globs of bile. He rolls over on his back, doesn’t wipe his mouth. Passes out next to the chunks that coat the grass.

Jack lies there for hours, for minutes. He watches the faint rise and fall of Mark’s chest, listens to his thready breath.

What the fuck happened? How the hell did I get here? What comes next? All good questions. They’re not passing through his mind like questions, though, more like those airplanes that loop de loop words in the sky. They’re telling you something; it could be important. But the words are far and fuzzy. They fade into nothing so fast.

He loves Mark. No. He is in love with Mark. For months, almost since the very day he met him. He’s not embarrassed to admit it. He’s hardly kept it a secret. Everyone knows: Mark, Mom, Tom. Even Sarah, possibly, when she’s alone and honest with herself. It’s a vast, frenetic, apparently homicidal love. A love that has doggedly persisted in the face of Mark’s fear, his uncertainty, his shame.

Maybe today is a blessing in disguise? Because he can finally admit it’s over. No more. He’s been given undeniable proof that Mark is damaged. Fucked up and spineless. Crazy. That Mark would prefer he kill him rather than kiss him. Like it’s 1954, not 1994. Like he’s a celibate Evangelical who attends church every day, wears a promise ring and takes his sister to prom. Like he’s a member – no, the President and Founder - of Teens Against Drugs and Sex and Fun. Like his goal in life is to marry a _good woman_ who'll never question him, spend her day ironing his shirts.

At this moment, he probably doesn’t have a right to be angry with Mark. But he is, he is.

He wants to go home. He wants to crawl into bed and sleep for twenty-hours and when he wakes up pretend this day never happened.

Mark also has to go home, but perhaps not tonight? He didn’t want to talk about his face. He didn’t need to. It’s obvious Tom, world’s worst dad - he thought his dad was the worst but no, Tom wins by a mile - beat the crap out of him. He’s less worried about what Tom will do to Mark, that’s over and done until the next time, and more what Mark will do to himself. He should be supervised.

Mark could stay with him and Mom? Tom hates him, though. He forgot that he did. He supposes Mark forgot too. They’ve been reminded. Head up his ass, indeed.

Mom will worry, when she sees Mark. It could be too much for even her to excuse. Tom could drop by, looking for Mark. Tom could bring his own gun. Jack thinks about family disputes and the mad dog ex-husbands and ex-boyfriends the evening news breathlessly reports on: _murder-suicide_. Wouldn’t this one get them excited.

The cough syrup is wearing off. All he hears is blood rushing through tunnels big and small, his heart trying to break free from its cage. Cortisol floods through his body, rats from a sewer tunnel into the street. The woods are looming. They’re so green and close and green and dark. They look peaceful, but he knows someone - something - sinister is watching. It's waiting for its moment; it's ready to strike. 

These woods aren’t heaven. These woods are hell.

He curls into a ball, knees against chest, arms around shins.

“What the fuck should I do. What the fuck should I do. What the fuck should I do.”

“Shut up, Jack.”

Look who’s awake.

“I’m going home.”

“You shouldn’t go home today.”

They lie there a while longer. He focuses on not gibbering. Not getting on all fours and crawling as fast as he can in the opposite direction from Mark. He focuses on developing a plan. He can do this.

“We should call Sarah.”


	2. Aftermath

Jack’s idea is terrible. They shouldn’t involve Sarah in their bullshit more than (he) already has. But he can’t stay awake for more than a few minutes at a stretch and has no fucking idea what to do with himself other than crawl back home and take his chances with Dad. 

 _Maybe it’s ok to go Sarah’s because going home can’t be much better. Will probably be worse?_ He loops repeatedly through this Mobius strip of concussed logic. He listens to his back throb in time with his head beat in time with his eye. He hears Jack coax, cajole, and lie to Sarah. “I promise – I swear on my life - I’ll tell you, when everything calms down, what’s going on.”

He watches Jack ice his cheek and root around the first aid kit. _Fix your own face, asshole_ what he clearly wants to scream at him, but is polite enough to keep to himself. He watches Jack empty the chambers of bullets, return the guns to his backpack.

“I should have thrown these pieces of shit in the pond.”

“I need to get them back to my house. Today would be good.”

He sees realization dawn on Jack that despite his thorough planning the ground might yet open up and swallow them whole.

He observes Sarah’s entrance into the bedroom, her expression alternating between horror and anger. _What is wrong with the two of you?_ _You’ve blown me of for weeks then call me to deal with this disaster!_  what she clearly wants to scream at them, but is polite enough to keep to herself. 

“You and your mom are pretty much the same color. She’s probably got some foundation that would help cover up the fingerprints – the bruises - on your neck.” 

Mark wants to point out that Jack has recently acquainted himself with Karen’s makeup, but is polite enough to keep it to himself. 

Jack puts him in Sarah’s car. "He needs to drop by his house when Tom’s not there. Under no circumstances are you to get out of the car. Let him deal with it." She drives off with him.

“Jack’s not coming with us?” 

Sarah nibbles a hangnail, examines him through narrow eyes. “Not today.” That doesn’t sound like what she meant to say. But he’s drifting off.

********  

Jack wakes up. It’s Sunday. It's raining. It’s a TV day. It's a pancake day. Can he convince Mom to make them? Maybe some bacon too?

His face hurts.

He remembers yesterday was Saturday. He touches his forehead. His fingers brush against the sliced cheese sticky smoothness of three band-aids holding in place a square of gauze. He blinks. His right eye moves at half the speed of his left eye. He looks out the window, closes his right eye, then his left. His right eye sees a brownish blur under the window. His left identifies it as a desk.

"Good morning." He sounds like a frog with a bad cold.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. A million trillion times fuck.

He throws the covers over his head. It’s back to the fetal position. As if blocking out daylight will stop him from reliving yesterday in nausesting technicolor.

Did he put on Mom’s dress and lipstick and kiss Mark? What the fuck was he thinking? Why the hell did he believe that would accomplish anything other than sending Mark into a deeper, faster _I’m not a fag, no sir_ tailspin?

With his freak outs, manipulation of Sarah, blatant lies followed by wordless demands that Jack pretend he’s not lying, Mark’s been testing his patience. He’s tried to quash the anger, tried to be sympathetic and accommodating. He didn’t realize that simmering under his anger is hatred. He hates Mark. He doesn’t want to see him ever again.

He _shot a gun_ at Mark. On purpose? On purpose. By sheer luck didn’t hurt him. Kill him. He’s the crazy, fucked up one, not Mark. He doesn’t deserve to see him –  see anyone - ever again.

Did he tell Sarah yesterday he's busy and wouldn't be around for a few days? Could he walk that back without coming across a total loser?

Jack rolls out of bed, slots a CD into the player, burrows back under the covers and cries. This isn’t tears leaking out the sides of his eyes crying. It's full on, body shaking, stuffing his fist in his mouth so no one can hear him sob crying. He hasn’t cried like this since first grade, when his guinea pig died. Since second grade, when Dad promised to take him to Chuck E. Cheese for his birthday but instead came home drunk, fought with Mom and passed out on the couch. Since the summer between fourth and fifth grade, when Jeff moved away and that was it for best friends. Until Mark.

Kurt covers the Vaselines’ cover, bullshits that his version of _Pennyroyal Tea_ will bore everyone. By the time he gets to Polly and her fucking cracker Jack’s ramped down to gentle snuffles.

Blanket over his head, he tries desperately to think about something – anything – else. He works out the multiple ways he could have avoided the woods, could have avoided burning his relationship with Mark to ashes.

 _Dumbass, you should have asked, ‘Why are you here and why did you bring your dad’s guns?’_

_Dipshit, you might have said, ‘You’re correct, I’m not a girl and I’m never going to be one. Is that any reason to run around the woods with guns?’_

_You complete imbecile, you could have kept it simple and told Mark, "Go fuck yourself."_

Mom shuffles past his room. She fidgets with the vacuum cleaner, clears her throat. Informs him it’s family time.

He faces the day - crawls out of bed and pulls on his jeans. Mark’s jacket is crumpled near the door. He kicks it into his closet. 

******** 

He wakes up to the arrhythmic drumbeat of raindrops against glass, hears them plop through the open window to collect on the sill (peel the paint off it). A breeze ruffles sheer white curtains, clearly purchased by an early riser, but Mark can’t see much through the water shrouded windows, the grainy half light.

He takes inventory: blinks, wiggles his fingers and toes, smacks his lips open and closed. The last one he regrets. His mouth tastes like a cold fireplace, a desert coated in glue. When he swallows, a quarter teaspoon of syrup flavored backwash soaks into the cotton balls lining his throat.

Everywhere he (slowly, carefully) turns there’s furniture covered in _stuff_ : a fabric covered bench piled high with neat stacks of fancy hardcover books, oversized lamps on bedside tables, a vase of fresh flowers on yet another table. Real flowers, not the day-glo ones that droop in plastic wrappers, in plastic tubs, in fungal water in a corner of the supermarket. There’s an overstuffed chair positioned at a precise forty-five degree angle to the window, and on the walls a handful of framed drawings whose theme seems to be…circus animals?  

He’s under blindingly white sheets that are somehow both crisp and soft, a blanket that isn't too thick or too thin. He’s resting on two huge pillows. He’s surrounded by additional pillows - square and circular and rectangular and turd shaped - wrapped in beige and cream striped fabric that match the paint on the walls, the blankets on the bed. 

On the table next to him there’s an old-timey alarm clock, a bell on it and everything. It tells him it’s 10:17. More importantly, there's a big glass of water and a pitcher full to the brim. Sarah. He levers himself up a few inches, snags the glass and sucks the water down, the _glugs_ extra loud in the too silent room. He pours himself a second glass, a third for good measure; drops back down, taking the empty glass with him, losing it somewhere in the mound of blankets and pillows and sheets. The curtains are getting soaked. He should close the window.  

Mark wakes up. It’s 11:07.

One, two, three. He slides out of bed, flexes his shoulders and neck. They're gritty, bruised parts scraping against battered ones like sandpaper on concrete, but that's to be expected. He takes the next step: hangs his head and reaches for his toes. 

Too much. The left side of his head is a bass drum. The beat hits his stomach and it rolls over - once and once more. Bile bubbles into his mouth. Every drop of blood in his head rushes down down to his feet, and he follows them to the floor.

He's dripping wet, suffocating in wet-burning cotton; has a primal urge to rip off his briefs and t-shirt so the air can dry his skin. Sarah barging in and seeing him naked is not an option. 

Dying deer sounds - low moans and whimpers and squeaks - stream thinly from his mouth. He alternates rocking from side to side with staying perfectly still. Tents his fingers over his stomach and prays he doesn't need to throw up - or take a shit - anytime soon. The only way he'll reach the bathroom is by crawling.

The pain ebbs and flows. Relief rushes in for five seconds, thirty seconds, seventy seconds. He takes shallow breaths, deep breaths, normal breaths. The sweat cools. He shivers.

Time to move.

With slippery palms he grips the padded arm of the chair and hauls himself upright. Uses both hands and body weight to close the window. (They should have stripped the paint, not slapped new layers on top of the old.)

Time to get out of here.

His clothes are crumpled in a corner. Next to them is a plastic bag. He brought this from home? Inside are a couple of grey t-shirts, a pullover, a washed out pair of Levi’s. Sweatpants, socks and underwear. Sarah?

He’s putting on the day before yesterday’s clothes when he sees the note pinned under the vase.

_Take a shower, Mark. Put on Jack’s clean clothes. Then come down to say hi to my parents and eat. This is not a request._

The guest bathroom is down the hall. Sarah has her own bathroom.  _En suite_. 

The marble tile, no nicks or scratches, is polished to a high shine. It makes his feet feel clean. In one corner is a porcelain sink you can bathe a medium size dog in. On the rim, in a silver dish, pink smelling soaps are piled like candies. There’s a shower stall, but hulking along the far wall is a claw foot tub.

It’s been years since he’s taken a bath.

He turns the faucets on full blast and pours directly under the stream sand colored crystals the same shade as the floor tile. They don’t bubble, just smell. He maneuvers himself into the tub, grumbling like an old man. Calibrates the hot and cold until steam wafts off the skin of the water. The water reaches the tippy top before he closes the taps. His stomach turns pink then red then lobster. He floats, barely bending his knees to avoid contact with the tub. He paddles his feet and hands, rocks his neck from side to side. Sinks to the bottom, stays down as long as he can, comes up for air. Rinse and repeat. As he moves up and down water sloshes gently over the side. He watches his dick bob left then right, his balls sway this way and that. 

The towels, each one the same size and shape, edges lined up like recruits in parade formation. They remind him 

“Mark? You in there? Food’s on the table.” 

The drain gurgles and slurps and he quickly dresses, his back to the full length mirror in the corner. 

He feels off wearing Jack’s clothes (Jack’s underwear). Like he’s naked - or going trick or treating. He misses his jacket, the chain that links to his belt loop. At least that’s still in the bedroom, attached to his jeans; if he wanted to retrieve it he could. But he’s seventeen, too old for a blankie. 

There's a fully stocked medicine cabinet with mirrors he can't avoid. So he tries - with Crest and a toothbrush wrapped in crinkly plastic, a comb, antibiotic cream and band-aids - to make himself look presentable. As presentable as one can look with an eye that resembles hamburger meat that’s been left in the back of the freezer for months and then sits, half defrosted, grey and misshapen, on the kitchen counter. He halfheartedly sifts through the pill bottles, like Sarah’s parents leave their good shit in the guest bathroom. Nothing stronger than ibuprofen. He washes a few down with a palmful of water.

He moves his eye around to feel if he can, probes delicately along the socket.  It’ll be fine in a couple of weeks. It has to be fine in a couple of weeks. He shouldn’t go back to the hospital. He shouldn’t have waited until last night to ice it. He shouldn’t miss more work than he already has.

Should’ve. Would’ve. Could’ve. He makes the necessary adjustments (camouflages). Gives thanks, once again, for having good hair.

Sarah has trained her parents well. He strolls into the dining room like he's there every Saturday, like he's a known quantity rather than Sarah's low class, bad news friend she talked about, then stopped talking about, and either way never brought home before yesterday. They frown and purse their lips, exchange concerned parent looks but limit themselves to, “Have you seen a doctor?”

Sarah has a terrible poker face.

“When my dad gets back into town we’ll go. I don’t want to worry him by calling, have him rush back here when he’s got work.”

“Did you call the police, Mark? About those boys?"

“I’m going to let him take care of that. He’s friends with one of the detectives.”

He has a terrible poker face.  

Every weekend Sarah eats breakfast (correction: _brunch)_ like this? There's crystal and silver and porcelain. Homemade waffles and whipped cream with berries. Coffee and fresh squeezed juice. English muffins, bacon _and_ sausage. A _frittata_. He eats and eats and eats, doesn’t stop until long after his woozy stomach protests  _Just because you haven’t had anything but cough syrup for a day and a half that doesn’t mean you can make up for it in one meal._  

He lays his fork down and his leg jounces. _Bounce bounce jounce_. Sarah puts a firm hand on his knee. She takes it off. _Bounce bounce jounce_. Hand on knee, where this time it stays. He feels the need to move. _Bounce bounce jounce_. She stomps on his foot and frowns; immediately looks stricken. Caught smacking a baby. 

He wonders how Jack is. Reminds himself he doesn’t give a shit.

They clear their plates. They offer unenthusiastically to clean up. They flee.

******** 

He walks into the kitchen. Mom winces.

“Your beautiful face.”

“It looks worse than it feels.” A lie, but a white one. She opens her arms, and he sags into a hug. His chin digs into the back of her shoulder, and she strokes his hair, croons with wordless sympathy. He’d cry again if he wasn’t a senior in fucking high school.  

He pulls away and sits at the table. Squashes the desire to rest his arms on it, his head. It’ll freak Mom out and he's, as everyone knows, such a _good boy_. 

The Sunday paper’s on the table. He pages to the comics. He reads _Garfield_. Jon is the biggest tool in the entire universe. He reads  _Doonesbury_. He’s too stupid to get the jokes. He reads _Calvin and Hobbes_. Snerk. 

Mom flits around the kitchen. “Well, school doesn’t start for a couple of weeks. You’ll have time to rest, get back to your gorgeous self.”

“Wouldn’t want to start the year off on the wrong foot, give anyone a bad impression.” He means for it to be funny. It comes out the opposite, sour and aggrieved.

He’s worried her. She joins him at the table, puts her hand on top of the newspaper, blocking his view of the failure that is this week's (every week's) _Family Circus_.

“Are you positive you didn’t recognize those boys?” 

“Positive. I’m ok. Really. I just need to watch some TV and chill for a bit. Ice my cheek some more. Maybe after pancakes? I promise I’ll clean up the kitchen, do the dishes, afterwards.”

The wheedling works. It doesn’t take much to distract her. It never does.  

********

Mark’s a puppy the nice family down the street believed was a slobbery, friendly breed – a bulldog.

Wrong.

He grows, and they discover he’s in fact a pit bull. A deranged, destructive pit bull. An untrainable, unstable pit bull they no longer want, but they’re too conscientious - too guilty, too complicit - to chuck him out of the car, leave him by the side of the road.

They go to the movies. Sarah holds his hand. While they wait for the trailers to start she massages his wrists, the tender spot by his thumb. She rests her head on his shoulder and riffs on that sad song she made up a while back. It sounds good. She smells better, like a babbling brook or a bowl of oranges or a cup of tea. He's still trying to figure it out when he falls asleep (passes out; potato, po-tah-toe).

Sarah wakes him up. They leave the theater. She drinks him in with eager, anxious eyes. He refuses to look at her. He mumbles and shuffles his feet. 

She grumps and flounces off. "I’ll be at the library. Meet me there at 6:00."

He needs everyone to stop treating him like a ticking bomb. He needs two hours to forget about the last twenty-four. He needs the white-hot pain that begins at the top of his head and ends somewhere below his knees, that shouts over every thought until all he hears is static, to go away. He needs to get high.

Since the night he lost his mind in such exceptional fashion, even for him, he’s only seen Miles here and there, in passing. But Miles understands his situation, his _context_ ; won’t be surprised when, after vanishing without so much as a _see you next time_ , he pops back into view, looking to score and shoot the shit.

Miles’ rainy day spot is a bar with three dollar MGD pitchers. For ten bucks you can feast on two pitchers and a platter of nachos. 

“What the fuck with your eye, man? You messin’ with someone’s old lady?”

They head outside to smoke, their view from the back door a weedy, garbage strewn field fenced in by sagging barbed wire. After a few minutes the rattling slide in his head slows down, softens, boulders temporarily ground down to pebbles.

“My dad. He was angry. He got fired? He’s about to get fired? I did something to set him off. Wrong place, wrong time.”  Mark tries it out, the half-truth, the sort of truth.

Miles is mildly concerned, overly sympathetic. His skin itches to be exposed to it. He'd like to shake himself off; walk into the rain, rinse away his pity and circle back.

“You weren’t kidding when you said he was a first class asshole. You need somewhere to crash for a bit?”

“I’m staying at Sarah’s, until he cools down.”

Miles, relieved to have a more palatable topic on the table, gives him a shit-eating grin. He cuts him off before he can start his tired yawping.

“Nah, I’m not staying in her room or anything. Her parents are there. She lives in a fucking palace. I’m in a guest room.”

“Yeah, but you could get some of that when they’re not there. Why stay with her and not Jack unless you’re getting some action? And you know my stand on friendly fucks - they can only make you feel better.”

He shrugs and pretends to consider the suggestion. He and Sarah are just friends. It’s not like that between them. Ok, there was that one time they kissed, but they’d just met. And that time she gave him a handjob, but he never got to finish. And that other time they kissed, but he was stressed out.

He considers the suggestion. He smirks. "We’ll see."

Inside, the floors, walls and booths, the air itself, are sticky sticky from a heated August wet that amplifies tenfold decades of spilt pitchers, unfiltered cigarettes and recycled vegetable oil. His boots suction to the floor. Each time he takes a step he’s cognizant he’s lifting a foot off the ground, propelling himself forward. He weighs a hundred and thirty pounds, and half that weight consists of his head.

To be sociable he eats flaccid chip fragments and pulpy jalapeños bound together by clots of half melted cheese, plays some pool, drinks some beer. He smokes three (four?) cigarettes – lighting one off the other, only stopping when he gets dizzy - scrounges a couple of joints and moves on. He exits the bar and turns right - or left, he can’t recall. During his time inside the rain’s almost given up, has been reduced to a drizzle that washes off the bar stink and soothes his face.

He wanders - avoiding rain thrashed puddles, plowing right through them - on the edge of town, but it's still too close. He retreats further, residential streets, ranch style houses on eighth of an acre lots; streets where the widely spaced trees seem green and full, but look more closely and they’re faded, tired. They’re ready for the change of season, ready to let go. Here, finally, there are no eyes that dart away when he returns their stare. 

When his watch gives him no choice but to return to the main street he stops at a payphone. 

“Yes! Hello.”

“Hey….Dad.”

“Mark? Mark! Where are you? Where the hell did you to disappear to?”

“I was at a friend’s. Crashed there because it was late. I might stay through the weekend. Was thinking I’d come back on Monday.”

Audible breathing.

“I’m fine.”

Heavy breathing.

“I’m not at Jack’s. With Jack. I promise.”

Irritated silence.

“I can make it to work this week. They know I get into fights.” 

Magnanimous sigh.

“I can get you a day off, maybe two. But don’t be an idiot and not show up this week. You think jobs grow on trees?”

Dad hangs up before he can reply.

********

The night before Mark goes home, Sarah showers, shaves and thoroughly brushes her teeth. She bothers to floss. She dons her sexiest pair of pajamas, a silk tank top over cotton shorts that are too small to go out in public in. _Hickeys are so tacky_  she thinks, as she examines (admires) hers in the bathroom mirror. She spritzes on (wrist, wrist, front of neck) a modest amount of CK One. She reflects, then sprays the inside of her left thigh, the back of her neck and down her shirt. She sneaks across the hall to Mark’s room, grateful that her parents’ bedroom is on another floor, grateful that for once she has reason to take advantage of it.

She stops in the doorway. He’s propped on a small mountain of pillows, flipping through one of the art books Mom leaves in multiple stacks in the guest rooms. He’s not surprised to see her. Smiles hello, roll-shrugs his shoulders up and forward, that curving, aw shucks motion he’s fully aware is completely adorable. He does it on purpose to drive her nuts. 

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.” He scoots over, adjusts the pillows, and pats the spot next to him. She clambers onto the bed.  

He twines the fingers of one hand with hers, with his free hand continues to examine the pages. She knows this one, black and white photos of bands from the sixties.

When Jack called, she felt put upon. She didn’t want to get mixed up, again, in their family drama. She wanted the two of them to stop acting crazy. She wanted things to go back to normal. She wanted, just once, for Jack and Mark to put her first.

But it’s been nice - really, really nice - having Mark here. Soon he'll be gone. She’s not sure when she’ll see him again. 

The tears sprout one by one from the corners of her eyes. They drip down her cheeks and neck - between her boobs.

Shit. 

Sarah blinks and stares at the recliner in the corner. Think about something else. What are all the states that start with A, in alphabetical order? It’s not sufficient. They’re still coming out, even faster. She can feel them leaving a streaky, obvious trail down her face. She doesn’t want to draw attention to how pathetic she is, but as she uses her free hand to brush her face (her nose) clean he turns toward her.  

He doesn’t say anything; sets the book aside, draws her close. Sarah lays her head on his chest, wraps her arms around him, front and back, and rubs her feet against his. Since she outed herself she might as well indulge in an actual cry. After a couple of minutes of relative quiet, the only sounds her muffled whimpers and sobs, Mark hums a bluesy riff she doesn’t recognize, runs a hand up and down her back. She pulls herself together.

He smells nice, like a girl, the skunky weed and unwashed boy fug that usually wafts off him replaced by something perfumey, but soft. She takes a big sniff - roses? - and sneezes.

“What was that?”

“You showered today?”

“A bath. That tub is amazing. Works out the kinks, too.”

He’s wearing a long sleeve waffle knit of Jack’s. She can’t see anything, but she'd like to. She wriggles up, sits cross legged next to him and tugs the hem of his shirt.

“Can I?”

The suggestion of a wrinkle forms between his eyebrows. He's about to say no.

“Why?”

“I want to see.”

Sarah braces herself for a repeat of yesterday night. A smirk, a joke. A sudden desire for a glass of water. A _fuck off little rich girl, and take your questions and your need to understand with you_. Instead, he says nothing. He stares at her, unseeing. He's somewhere else. She can guess where he is, but she doesn't doesn't blink, doesn't turn away. They're like this for longer than she thinks is possible. Long enough for that weird tummy feeling to make an appearance. _This is not your life. Situations like this don't happen to you. You should be in your bed right now. This is all a dream, and you'll very soon wake up and be super relieved._

She's about to break the silence when Mark nods and eases out of his shirt. She helps him pull it over his head, off his shoulders and arms.

She is an idiot for ever, even momentarily and against her better judgment, liking Tom.

Mark’s gaze is fixed unswervingly on the snapdragons under the window. She moves to her knees and kisses each bruise along his chest and shoulders and arms. He doesn’t indicate he approves. Or disapproves. She decides to interpret his lack of response as a request to please continue. She turns him around, does the same for his back; slips behind him, supported by headboard and pillows, and pulls him toward her until he’s lying between her legs, back to chest. His head lolls against her shoulder, breath slow and even. If she wanted to she wouldn’t need to move her head much to reach the spot where lips meet cheek.

She had an unformed plan to do something significant tonight. Some serious messing around, building off what happened last night.

First, they fought.

“Your parents think the sun shines out of your ass. Your parents got you a _summer internship_. Your parents would rather chop off their own fucking heads than make you leave school. Want to tell me how many times your parents have smacked the shit out of you?" She opened her mouth, but he already had the answer. "What’s that? Zero? So, yeah, maybe you don’t understand my fucking problems. Maybe you should go solve someone else’s problems." His face turned ugly and knowing. "Unless they want to adopt me too? No? I didn't think so.” He huffed and puffed and dug his elbow into her ribs until she shifted away, and she had no idea Mark was such a _bitch_.

Then, they made up.

She was supposed to be abashed, afraid. She was supposed to be mad, march off. But her eyes were like cotton balls, muscles like pudding. An asymmetrical grin cracked her face open and try as she might she could not will it away. She was tempted to crawl into Mark’s lap and give him a hug. Say _I’m sorry. Forget about my stupid questions. Let’s start over._

“Can we just kiss and make up?” she asked, the space between each word pulled like taffy.

That got his attention.

“I know we’re not together. We don’t have to be.”

That got him kissing her. His lips were soft, tongue teasing. _What do you want, Sarah?_ She’d been here before. More than once. She was ready for more.

After last night, is it unreasonable to think about sex? Friend sex. To be open to it, if the opportunity presents. To lose her virginity. Get that over with, with someone she’s totally comfortable with, someone’s she’s absolutely attracted to. Who, if last night was any indication, is attracted to her. It didn't matter, she told herself, that they’re not together. She’s not so naïve anymore that she thinks they were, are or ever will be. That could in fact, she argued with herself, make it easier. The timing, she admitted to herself, wouldn’t be ideal, but she wasn’t sure when she’d get the chance again. She has a condom in the back pocket of her shorts.

It was a silly idea – self-absorbed, callow, ingenuous. She reads a lot of books, has multiple words with which to describe her fathomless stupidity.

She’s uncertain what to do with her hands. She places them on the mattress, behind her head, on Mark's shoulders, before wrapping them loosely around his stomach. Sarah pokes his belly button, but he doesn’t even twitch, sighs a rhetorical "hmm?" and drops heavier against her.

“Mark, grab that blanket from the end of the bed before you fall asleep.”

She leans over and turns off the bedside lamp.

 


	3. School Starts

School starts. It’s last September. The twice weekly, dumb as shit, still unnerving dream Jack hasn’t been plagued by for months revives itself. The one where he hasn’t shown up to math class all semester and there’s a final and he's naked and people notice but are politely ignoring that he forgot to dress himself. He masks his anxiety - _I came to class like this on purpose_ \- but is in fact fucking uncomfortable, which makes it harder to concentrate on the equations he has no idea how to solve.

School starts. It’s last February. He’s dreamy, distracted, diverted. He walks from the gym to the main building and sees the spot, presently carpeted in rusty, slimy-slippery leaves, earlier in icy hills of dirty white snow, where he and Mark had a pissing contest: who could write their name the most clearly. Sarah giggled and complained. _This is so juvenile. You’re not freshman anymore_. She took Polaroids. _Turn to the left, just a bit. I can't see anything, I promise._ She egged them on. _Ooohh, Jack, I think Mark’s winning_. Yes, Mark won. He'd had lots more practice. And Jack was trying not to stare at his dick.

School starts. It’s last May. Mark’s once again disappeared into the ether. Sarah and he pretend that what they have (before: each other; now: each other) satisfies them. He's sad but resigned - being a teenager is the worst, life must go on. He doesn’t acknowledge what happened between him and Mark, doesn’t take responsibility for his mind-bending mistake, doesn’t admit that if he didn’t desire Mark above everything else, like a spoiled brat who eats only Oreos breakfast, lunch and dinner and when denied them breaks all his toys – than everything would be fine. Or at least suck less. 

School starts. It’s last June. He stares at a fixed point on the chalkboard. He sees Mark kissing him, feels him suck lightly on his tongue. He’s trying not to moan because they’re at the park, and Mark gets nervous when he makes any noise in public. It takes concentration because he can feel him, hard hard, through the combined thickness of their jeans. All he wants – today, tomorrow, always - is to drop to his knees and put him in his mouth. They’re outside, though, and Mark will never agree to that.

He stares at the houses, trees and traffic that skim by the windows of his bus, and he’s in the woods behind his house, hands braced against a tree. He doesn't want to topple over when Mark steps between his spread legs, when he drapes himself flush against his back (his ass). Mark kisses his neck and tunnels under his shirt. His forehead presses into his skull. His fingers dig into the spaces between his ribs. They trickle down his stomach and settle on his belt buckle. He listens to Mark's wordless debate, rocks his hips back. _Consider this._ Mark whines, guttural and craving; pushes back by way of reply. He encourages him once more. Mark fumbles with his belt, his button, his zipper. He takes him in his dry, hard grip, and he (quietly) moans, (silently) chants _Mark Mark Mark_ in time with his hand. 

Like all seniors, he has a mandatory _progress meeting_ with the Guidance Counselor. To update her on all the work he's accomplished, all the decisions he's made since his last meeting with her, many months ago. The meeting he skipped, the work he ignored, the decisions he put off. But that isn't accurate because it implies he possesses basic awareness of what these words mean; why and how they apply to him; why he should give a single shit about any of them.

At the appointed hour he shambles down the hall; stops to read every flyer and bulletin board he passes. He plays an instrument. Is it too late for him to try out for the jazz band? Does it matter he's never listened to jazz before? They don't mean Kenny G do they? Because that's a nonstarter.

The office bristles with pastel colored inspirational posters, college banners and boxes of tissues, all of which serve to remind him there's more than one reason he's spent months and months avoiding this moment. 

He doesn't recognize the Counselor, though it's not like Capital is especially large. Maybe she's new? Because she's very distinctive. About the same age as his mom, but the inverse. Tall, very tall, much taller than him, with dark hair that haloes her head. Big boned, thick set. A face - ample forehead and strong nose - that can best be described as assertive. A voice that matches, that cuts through the fog. _Pay attention. Don't bullshit me. You can't possibly believe I haven't heard this one before?_ No wheedling with this one. She's here to steer you towards the future, help you become your best self, and you'd better bring your A (or in his case, C+) game. 

It's difficult, because she's sitting behind her desk, he's sitting in front of her desk, and her breasts - which are rather large - are in his direct line of sight. They're big enough that he worries they might hurt her; big enough that he wonders if they're attractive. (He's not the best judge. They've never particularly appealed to him, no matter their size, not even when they were Sarah's.) He'd continue - against all sense of self-preservation and everything he's learned from his mom about good manners, _despite the fact he has no interest in them_ \- to examine them, fascinated and nervous: wondering where they go when she sleeps, where she buys her shirts, whether he could fit his whole face in her bras. Luckily, she has a mole on her forehead that he can concentrate on. When he does, it kind of sort of appears he's making eye contact. 

She spends the first five minutes of their twenty minute meeting flipping through his folder, taking occasional notes. Each time she does she looks at him and frowns. She is...perplexed. 

“You were on track with previous years. You were pushing yourself. You took Chinese."

“Yeah…”

“But in November, you started to slide. And in January there was a significant drop-off in the quality of your work.”

“Mmm-hmmm…”

“In your grades.”

“Yeah…”

“Jack. What happened last year?”

Mark’s hands, Mark's mouth, Mark's hair. His shoulders and his eyes, his tongue and his dick. The way his pants hang loose around his hips. The way he struts instead of walks. The way he talks and talks and talks but is quiet when he’s happiest. The way he curls his lip when he’s (pretending to be) a creep. The way he encouraged Jack to be in a way he never thought was possible. The way Mark pulled him close and then kicked him away. 

“I guess I got…preoccupied?”

He's thinking about Mark. Getting hard thinking about Mark. While he sits a few feet away from the Guidance Counselor. A perfect illustration of his life. His _priorities_. He shifts in his chair, reaches for the backpack at his feet and pulls out a notebook and pencil. Puts them in his lap. 

“You were supposed to take both the PSAT and SAT. And didn’t.”

“I think I was sick that day? Both days?”

“I like to meet all the rising seniors in the spring. You missed your appointment. Your follow up one too.”

“Are you sure? I didn’t hear about those.”

While he can't sweet talk her, he has other tools in his box. He can dig in his heels, ensuring that all she’ll get from him are obstinate, obtuse responses. Counterproductive, cutting off nose to spite face responses that cement his reputation as someone you shouldn't waste your valuable time on. 

Why not cooperate, you ask? That's a stupid question. Here's what you need to ask: Why should he?

“As you are well aware," clipped and precise, following her script, fumbling idiot be damned, "your GPA is extremely important, but schools consider other variables too. Students can demonstrate their strengths and capabilities through extracurriculars - creative arts, athletics, the school newspaper, work, clubs, volunteering. I don't have evidence of you doing any of this. Perhaps it didn't make it onto your record?” 

“Not really. I’m taking art this year?” 

She ignores his effort, squints passingly at her notes. “You were counted absent nineteen times last year. Most of them unexcused. That's atypical. A flag." By that she means _horrifying_ and _putting you on the path to loitering in parking lots and harassing convenience store owners who just want to feed their families._ She's not entirely wrong, though it's more that he's on the cusp of embracing the inevitable: his future as a depressed, demented virgin living at home well past age thirty, not even a basement to retreat to.

“There was stuff going on...at home.” 

“But it settled? Towards the end of the year your attendance improved.”

“Yeah everything’s…fixed. Better.”

"If there were extenuating circumstances, that's something that can be addressed in an application. Schools take that into consideration."

He wishes she'd stop looking at him, like through sheer force of will she can make him answer in a more acceptable way. It's not true, and she's making his stomach hurt. He drops his head, lets his hair shade his face.

"Ok. But it wasn't like that? Not really. And more school after high school...I don't know?"

She sighs heavily. Through his curtain he watches the twin peaks rise and fall. Are they squishy? Firm? He has a sick urge to reach out and push his fingers into them. Would they feel like cookie dough? A loaf of bread? Pudding? She brushes an impatient hand across her forehead, and he listens. Tucks his hair behind his ears, re-focuses on the mole and meekly widens his eyes. _Yes ma'am, I'm here._

“Jack. Let’s cut to the chase. What do you want? What are your plans for next year, after graduation? Are you interested in post-secondary options? Would you like to go straight to work?”

“I thought you were supposed to have ideas about that - what would be good for me.”

"My job, Jack, is not to tell you what to do. It is to help you determine how to best achieve your goals."

"Oh. Ok. But I'm not sure what that means? Do you mean what I want to be when I grow up?"

“Ultimately, yes. But it's more about what you need to," mid-sentence she trails off, realization dawning that her typical bootstrapping approach won't suit. That, bizarre and unbelievable as it may seem, he has not given sustained, serious consideration - recently, ever - to life after June 1995. She closes his folder and pushes it aside. The skin around her ear, around her mole relaxes. Her expression shifts, becomes less assertive, more solicitous. "Jack. Is this the first time someone has talked to you about what you'll do after high school?”

Mrs. Lincoln is astonished. Mrs. Lincoln is confused. Mrs. Lincoln has, obviously, never met his mom. “It hasn't really come up. We don’t have much - any - money for college.”

“There are need-based grants. Loans. Many students work through school. What’s most important is that you decide whether post-secondary education is what you want. Then we can talk specifics. Two-year community colleges have a reasonable tuition, and with your transcript could be a good fit. There are technical schools, training programs. You have options, Jack. You need to take this process seriously, need to take charge of it. This can't happen without you.”

“Ok.”

“You’ve got time, but at this point it’s limited. The first step is to show up to school and take your classes seriously. The second is to take the SATs. You might not need the score, but if you do, at least that’s taken care of.” Her eyes steadily, compassionately, bore holes into him. _Do I finally have your attention? Do you finally fathom the gravity of your situation? Are you ready to pay attention to what's actually important - and apparently you need to be told that's not my breasts?_

“Ok.”

They make an appointment to meet again in three weeks.

During lunch, he fills in Sarah.

“I’ve been informed in no uncertain terms that I have to start thinking about the rest of my life.”

She quirks an eyebrow at him.

“I’m a Senior now.”

“Your point?”

“I suppose I’ll graduate in June.”

“Of course you will.”

“Then what?”

“Huh?”

“Well, what comes after that?”

“Are you asking what I think you should do? After school?”

“No! Maybe…Yes?”

Sarah perks up, energized by his indecision. She emerges from her slouch, frowns and crunches thoughtfully on a carrot stick. Like his question is worth taking seriously. “Well, what do you like to do? Really like - besides skating. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Jack, but you won’t be going professional. Ever.”

“Listening to music?”

“Not helpful.”

“Getting high? Watching TV? Getting high then watching TV?”

She harrumphs, threatens him with a carrot stub.

“Are you going to take this seriously or waste my time?”

“I don’t know, Sarah. What do you really like to do?”

“Take pictures, of course. Solve mathy type puzzles. Play tennis. Ride horses. Read books that give me a perspective on other cultures, other ways of thinking and”

“Jesus, I get it. You have interests. You’re _well-rounded_."

She doesn’t appreciate him talking like that. She’s exasperated with him, with his obtuse, counterproductive, obstinate responses.

“You’re good at things, Jack. You’re smart. You’ll think of something.”

“I’d better think fast. Mrs. Lincoln wants answers yesterday. And after last year, I’m kind of fucked.”

Across her face flashes a multitude of expressions: sadness, pity, sympathy, concern. _I warned you this would happen_.

He deserves all of that.

********

A week later, in a cheerful, forthcoming mood he hasn't seen from her in some time, Sarah finds him in the art studio, where he’s brushing slip onto the world’s lumpiest, shit browniest round...thing.

“I was talking about you with my dad. Well, about your _what should I do after high school_ problem.”

“You really didn’t have to do that, Sarah.”

“Shut up and listen. I’ve told you he manages other people’s money.”

Some people are so rich their money sits in their bank account, and they can’t find anything better to do with it than give it to strangers to take care of. To grow. He can’t believe he is friends with Sarah. That he’s put his hands up her shirt. Under her skirt.

“A lot of his work is keeping track of what types of companies are going to do well not just now, but in ten or twenty or thirty years.”

“Mm-hmmmm….”

“He said there are will be lots of old people – Baby Boomers - who will need to be taken care of for decades, for the next fifty or sixty years. Do you know how many Baby Boomers there are? Too many. You might as well make money off them because once they retire they’re going to suck all of us dry.”

Sarah is triumphant. Jack can’t tell where she’s headed with this story.

“Medicine, Jack! Healthcare! Taking care of old people, old people who are sick – and there’ll be a shit ton of them!”

“Medicine? You think I’m going to be a doctor?”

“Well…no. But there are lots of other jobs. Helping to run hospitals and offices - being a tech, medic, or nurse. They’re jobs that don’t require four years of school. If you don’t want that.”

“Huh.”

“My dad says it’s steady work and will always be in demand. The salaries are good, and you can work anywhere. Not be stuck here forever.”

“Why would I want to do any of this?”

“Besides getting paid? You’re awfully choosy for someone who a few days ago was having a nervous breakdown about their future. How about…you’re patient and sensitive and kind. You listen to and think about others. You don’t engage in that macho bullshit. I think you’d be good at making people feel better.”

“What are you saying, Sarah, I’m not too manly for the work?”

“Don’t twist my words, you know what I mean.”

********

Mark is blunt and greasy. A butcher’s cleaver that’s used all day to debone the toughest cuts of meat and is thrown in a drawer at closing: unwashed, unsharpened. He's muted and dull. His station’s been changed from metal to muzak, the Melvins and Acid Bath swapped for Neil Diamond and Rush. He knows there’s no reason to dwell on Jack and what happened in the woods. They tried something; it couldn’t last. They got angry and, yes, violent. It’s for the best they can’t see each other. He's a shark, always moving forward, never looking back.

The most essential part of him, though, has been missing since then. He wants it back, damn it.

He goes to work, comes home. He minds his manners, submits to orders. He doesn’t burn his Hate Eternal t-shirt, but does leave it in the closet. He cleans his room, cleans the apartment. He goes to the Laundromat. He stops smoking. He plays acoustic guitar.

He makes simple meals: ground beef with packet seasoning, grilled cheese with a side of tinned soup, noodles with supermarket brand tomato sauce mixed in. Once or twice he gets adventurous and makes quesadillas, rice and beans, tacos - guesstimating ingredients and proportions from when he watched Karen do it, when Dad told her he liked Mexican food and she dashed off to make him the three dishes he could name.

Dad’s eyes gleam. Sparkle. He’s received confirmation his approach is the correct one, and he congratulates himself on a job well done. For the first time since he came home from Sarah’s, he speaks to him in complete sentences. "Looks like you’re starting to grow up. You’re understanding the importance of discipline. Learning what’s really important, what really matters. Maybe you won’t end up a complete failure."

During dinner, after dinner, they sit together and watch TV. Dad carps about the strike, how it’s deprived him of baseball at its peak. He rants about the cheapskate owners and the never satisfied, filthy rich players, how they colluded to screw over the Yankees, well on their way to winning another pennant.

He commiserates. "That sucks."

"You're old enough for a beer every once in a while."

He's grateful. "Thanks," he says, and sips it slowly.

"We should think about how we can you get back on track to enlist. You need to take some classes, finish school. Not at Capital, though."

He doesn't miss a beat. "Of course not. That place sucks."

"We haven't been shooting in months. We could even try out the range." 

"Sounds great," he says with enthusiasm. They go, and he doesn't think about turning his gun on Dad. Or himself. Not once.

He wonders if this is who he is, but previously he was too ignorant to see it. If it's who he's meant to be, but he couldn’t achieve it without someone to prompt the transformation. He wonders why he doesn't appreciate more this new and improved version of himself. Maybe it's akin to being a butterfly or a frog. He needs time to forget his former, lowly, caterpillar tadpole self.

He needn't worry. It doesn’t last.

A Wednesday morning. He wakes and greets a dark mood. His thoughts are black and red. Familiar. He pulls them close, closer. Wraps them around him like a blanket. So he's hot and itchy. So he squirms, trapped under their weight. 

His muscles twist themselves into knots – or they’ve been in knots all night, and as he emerges to fully unwelcome consciousness they squinch tighter in protest. He drums his heels against the mattress, like a fucking three year old. It doesn't help. He tries again, bounces his whole body up and down. _Fuck work. Fuck Dad. Fuck the world._

He could die in his bed, this very second, and it wouldn't matter. No one would notice, would care, feel anything but temporarily inconvenienced. That they're short-handed at work for a few days, until they find his replacement. That money has to be forked out for a pine box. 

(Jack would be sad, but he's gone.)

Is he even alive? How would he know? He pinches the skin above his wrist, near his armpit, along his groin. He sees purple. He bangs his head against the wall. Once, twice. A third time. He sees the Milky Way. 

(Jack would tell him, but he's gone.)

He should rip his wallpaper from the wall and tear it into a million pieces. Tear his lamp from the socket and beat it against the cheap, shitty drywall until it’s dust. Put his foot through his window, hurl everything he owns into the street, then set it on fire. Throw his glass against the door and lovingly flay (scrape, peel) himself open with the shards, neck to shins. Until his skin is shredded, piled in bloody scraps at his feet and all that's left of him is oozing pulp. Until what little remains of him has disappeared.

(Jack would miss him, but he's gone.)

He wants to scream, but if he starts he'll never stop. 

Dad pounds on his door once, twice. By the third time he’s shouting and there’s no more delaying. He drags his ass out of bed, excavates a shirt and pants from the mound in the corner and storms into the kitchen. He pours himself a cup of coffee, slopping a generous amount over the lip and onto the counter; returns the pot to the burner with _emphasis_.

“You’re late! And you stink. Did you even bother to brush your fucking teeth?”

He slouches against the fridge. “Why so anxious?" Snaps his eyes up and away. "You think the guys at work want to kiss me?”

His dad's at the kitchen table. There’s milky coffee in his Semper Fi mug and crispy buttered toast on a chipped, blue-rimmed plate. The newspaper takes up most of the table; full glory, even if there’s no baseball to report on, paid to the sports pages. It’s his morning ritual, one he prefers not be disturbed. That he’s already disturbed by refusing to give a shit. Dad grunts and glares a warning. His mustache growls _watch your step_.

He has no intention of leaving his newspaper, his chair, his peaceful breakfast.

“Or are you worried that I want to kiss them?” Now Dad’s paying attention. For good measure, he runs his tongue over his top lip, pumps his pelvis a couple of times.

What the fuck was that? He tries to maintain an insolent expression. _Yup, I just said that and meant every word. Asshole._ Instead of looking apologetic and scared. _I didn't mean it. Please don’t hurt me?_

Dad snorts. He leaps out of his chair and charges the three steps to the fridge, blocking his exit before he can scuttle away. Dad sneers. "You think this is a joke? You need to be reminded what a complete piece of shit you are?" He squeezes his shoulder with furious fingers. Shakes him, one-handed, and his bones crack. "You want to piss me off? Congratulations. You've succeeded.” He tries to wriggle out of his grasp, and Dad bounces his head off the fridge.

He loses this game of chicken, turns his head to the left. Dad hesitates, then compromises; holds him by the scruff of the neck so he remains in place as he’s cuffed across the right ear once, then again for good measure.

His ear rings - high, sharp and piercing; his own personal dog whistle. He pastes his smirk on, but today it doesn't stick. 

“I better get going. Sir. You know I hate to be late.”

“Mouthy little bastard.” As Dad says it he returns to his seat at the kitchen table, gnaws on a slice of toast. He’s clearly lost interest, stale bread worth more of his attention than his kid. He stomps out the door and slams it behind him for good measure.

His life blew up a few weeks ago. He thought it was over. And now it’s like he dreamt it. He remains in this shit town: still with his dad, out of school, alone. He looks in the mirror; his eye has recovered. It makes him _mad_.

There's no ride to work today, he would have missed it anyway, and it’s raining. A misty, pissing rain, one that seems harmless but after a few minutes you’re soaked to the bone, and he’s in stiff canvas work pants that will cling for hours to the damp. He stalks down the street, wishing someone would pass by. A stolid family man he can bump into and take offense with; who he can punch in his limp dick and knee in his jiggly gut. It’s too early. The streets are desolate, the stores locked tight. The leaden, rain soaked clouds stick time in place at five in the morning. Lights are on in apartments and houses, but the shadows behind curtains are only starting to take showers, roust kids from bed, make breakfast and eject dogs into yards for their morning shits.

Something has changed. He's changed. He’s meek and mild. Passive and housebroken.

Who is he trying to fool, cowering in his apartment, telling himself this is how he’s supposed to be. At seventeen.

No more.

Let's how Dad likes him now.

__


	4. Research and Writing (and Fun)

October brings days as well as nights that drop below freezing. Before the middle of the month three inches of snow blanket the driveway. The next day’s sun, fortunately, is strong, and by lunchtime it's melting, surfacing muddy ruts that encourage Mom to talk to herself. 

"If it's like this all winter we’re going to need more gravel. How can rocks cost so much?"

He’s happy for the reprieve. He has to spend enough of November through March shoveling. No need to get a head start.

Saturday afternoon. He heads to the town library - he’s watched so much solitary TV recently if he does it for one more minute he'll poke his eyes out - with a vague notion to research healthcare...stuff. He reports to Mrs. Lincoln next week and, other than whining to Sarah, has made no progress. Sarah was helpful. More than helpful, a lifesaver; but _my friend’s dad told her who told me that I should be a medic, or an X-ray tech, or a nurse, or something like that, because old people_ , is weak. He should do, is capable of, more.

At least, that’s what he’s been told. He's dubious, but it's not as if he's too busy to go through the motions.

He walks into town, cutting a lazy swathe through the sun-warmed air. Ambles across the little wooden bridge, past front yards crowded with pumpkins, plastic skeletons and Canada geese, taking care to avoid the slushed puddles, always deeper than they appear to be, and the shady patches where the snow will shrink, harden and blacken, but won't fully melt until spring. He swings left and the road rises sharply before him; puffs his way to the top, and there's his favorite tree: perfectly, magnificently red.

After essential pit stops to buy peanut butter crackers and check if any good music has dropped, he surrenders to the inevitable and climbs the steps to the library, a grand old building whose primary purpose is to highlight, in case he's forgotten, how truly mediocre the rest of town is. He mooches to the basement and makes his way to the spillover reference section, full of books no one reads unless they've been ordered to. He strolls by travel guides, foreign language dictionaries, out of print atlases and out of date Encyclopedia Britannica. Almost plows into Mark standing by the magazine back issues.

Encountering Mark at the gas station for the first time since Tom turned everything to complete and utter shit felt exactly like being punched in the nose while being held in place. You can’t collapse in a heap or run away; you have to wait for the next blow, completely at the mercy of your tormenter. He's been subjected to this more than once, is not exaggerating. Pinned by Mark’s accusatory sneer, his heart beating _Mark Mark Mark Mark Mark_ , all he could do was brace himself - _No words for an old friend_ \- and plant his feet. _I miss you. I want you. I need you. I love you. Why did you leave me? Where did you go_?

Encountering Mark in the basement reference section of the town library for the first time since he turned everything to complete and utter shit, words he never imagined he’d have reason to string together, feels exactly like being nuked. He’s never personally experienced it, but last week he watched _Terminator 2_ ; he has a solid basis for comparison. He’s staring at Mark and melting. First his top layer of skin, then the subcutaneous tissue, followed by muscles, ligaments, tendons, bones and one by one his organs until all that remains is his stripped skull, swimming in a puddle of radioactive goo.

Mark’s angled diagonally to him, scrutinizing the magazines, lumped together by year and bound in plastic cases. Doesn’t notice even from the corner of his eye that he's loitering ten feet away. Jack considers pretending he didn’t see Mark, scurrying upstairs and running home. He thinks about backing up very slowly and quietly as he catalogs what’s changed (Is he skinnier or taller or both? Did he dye his hair or is it dirty? Is that his new _I’m trouble stay away from me_ jacket?) and what’s stayed the same ( _I miss you_. _I love you. Where did you go?_ )

While he’s debating he rustles his backpack, breathes too loudly. Mark turns, casually to start, then more forcefully. His shoulders reach his ears. His eyes scrunch, hands clench. Jack focuses on keeping his body relaxed, face unthreatening but confident, like when a strange dog wanders into his yard and he doesn’t know whether it’s hoping for a belly scratch or an opportunity to eat his face. His tactic works? Mark’s eyes soften, his fingers loosen. He understands it’s sheer coincidence they’re both here. He isn’t breaking whatever promise he made to Tom, to himself, by sharing a library aisle with him.

“Hey.” This time he's not going to stand silently, stare fixedly at Mark like the lovelorn asshole he undoubtedly is. He catalogs that Mark’s eye has recovered, looks fine. That he still bites his nails. 

“Hey.” Mark smiles. It's faltering, but he'll take it. 

“You’re learning how to throw the perfect dinner party for twenty?”

Mark’s puzzled. Glances back at the shelves and expels a small puff of laughter.

“Nah. It’s too wet to be outside. I picked up Sarah out front once. Not my usual stomping grounds.”

He nods. He doesn’t want to talk about Sarah.

“You looking for something?”

“I’m meeting with Mrs. Lincoln next week. The Guidance Counselor.”

A reaction flickers across Mark’s face – there and gone too fast for him to name it.

“Yeah? Cool.”

Mark doesn’t elaborate, and he finds himself volunteering information. 

“I’m figuring out what to do after graduation. She’s ordered me to figure out what I want to do.”

“The drive-through at Burger King?”

“I have no fucking clue why she won’t settle for that. But she wants a different answer.”

“And how much research do you need to do to hand people bags of burgers?”

“Think I could handle it.”

If he stops talking Mark will leave. 

“Sarah was helping me narrow my options. She suggested I work in a hospital as an EMT or a tech. Or a nurse. Something like that.”

As he says _nurse_ Mark’s eyes scrunch again.

“Yeah, it’s not a job most guys will do. It’s so gay, right?”

He sounds bitter, like when he was talking to Mom about school and his joke fell flat. Is that what he is?

Mark doesn’t run away. He shrugs tersely and interlaces his hands behind his head; rocks back and forth on his heels and looks at a point just beyond his ear. He resists the temptation to turn and check out what Mark's staring at, to break the tiny bit of momentum they've established. Instead, he continues to volunteer information.

“The job – the jobs – pay well. Sarah says there aren’t enough people doing them, that hospitals are always looking to hire.”

“Money is good.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Mark's eyes skim over his face and settle on his hands, hidden in his coat pockets, where he can't see him digging his nails into his palms.

“You're down here because?”

“Oh! Right. The librarian told me there are career books in this section. Descriptions of what jobs are, how to train for them, what classes you need to take.”

“You need to go to school to learn to change diapers and bed pans?”

“Fuck you.” But there’s no heat behind his words. He’s smiling. “There’s more to it than that.” 

Why is he defending this position? It’s Sarah's, not his. He hasn’t made any decisions. That’s why he’s here, to take charge, be in control. He might end up at the Burger King. He might, after all is said and done, want to work at the Burger King.

“Don’t let me stop you.”

Mark steps aside, and he can’t drag this out anymore. Jack nods and cruises down the aisle, moves on to the next one.

After he finds his books it's back to the main floor to search for an empty table. Then he needs to arrange his books in a tidy stack, organize his backpack and pen and spiral notebook. _Taptaptaptaptap_. Glares from the next table. _Taptaptaptaptap._

"Shhhh......"

This isn’t the school library. Silence is expected. Noise is not appreciated.

He’s staring vacantly at a photo of overly muscled, flinty eyed men flanking an ambulance, various shades of white and black and brown yet weirdly similar in appearance, when someone dumps a stack of books right in front of him. They hit the table with a _thud_ like a rock being thrown at the side of a house, a few of the bottom ones managing to stay, most of the top ones falling to the floor with multiple thwacks as they hit chairs on their way down.

He flinches, more than once, but he's had years of practice ignoring the assholes that surround him and, even as nearby tables spit and protest, manages to keep his head down.

"What is going on?" 

"Would you be careful!"

"Have a little respect. This is a library not a playground."

“Sorry, sorry! I tripped.” Said loudly, in a voice that is not the slightest bit sorry.

Of course it is Mark.

Mark picks the books off the floor and closes them, strokes their covers flat. In theory quietly, but in reality in a way that ensures everyone continues to watch him. He eases the chair from under the table, making sure to squeak it along the floor and bump it against the chairs next to it, repeatedly mumbling. "Shit. Shit. Sorry. My bad. I shouldn't be saying shit. Sorry. Fuck." 

After the longest hundred seconds of his life, Mark sits across from him. 

He's reading with complete concentration “A Typical Day in the Life of a Paramedic.”

_What are the factors that separate the job of paramedic from other healthcare professions (e.g., nurse)? A major one is that medics regularly encounter – and are expected to respond quickly to - unsupervised, potentially dangerous and chaotic situations. This is why paramedics often work very closely with law enforcement. Police officers, for example, secure a location, ensuring it's safe for medics to enter it and treat victims. Medics also partner with doctors and nurses in the emergency room, and are responsible for handing off care swiftly, with key details succinctly and accurately summarized. Nurses, on the other hand, work in hospitals and doctor's offices. In these locations, security and additional staff are present, resources are more plentiful and the environment is more regulated. Additionally, while paramedics are responding primarily to emergencies, the emergency room is only part of the care hospitals provide. Some nurses focus on the ER, but many work in other departments – some of which are centered on urgent or critical care, others on more routine care._

"Don’t medics have access to a lot of good drugs?” Mark asks in an exaggerated whisper that's as good as a scream. 

Someone with little tolerance for noise must have complained to a librarian. A short, wiry lady with cropped silver hair and reading glasses perched at the very tip of her witchy nose frowns over to them. She’s dressed in clogs, overalls and a turtleneck - a no nonsense grandma - and keeps it brief.

“First and last warning boys. Then you're going to find somewhere to chat that is not this library.”

He grabs his notebook.

_Shut up! I have to do this!!!_

Mark rolls his eyes, but stops talking. Actually plucks a book from his stack ( _Better Homes & Gardens_, _Bass Player_ , _Bass Fishing_ , _Brides_ ) and flips through it.

Who is he kidding? He doesn’t want to serve as the first responder at the homes of women who have been battered by their husbands (boyfriends, brothers, dads, sons, exes, one night stands). At the home away from home bars of men who have been beaten half to death in a fight. At the cars of high schoolers who obtained their learners' permits and two weeks later got drunk and wrapped themselves around a tree, apologies to the friends too stupid to find another ride, to the mom with four kids who was in the opposite lane. He has absolutely no interest in looking at, let alone touching, the corpses of dusty old ladies who died two weeks ago and have been eaten by their cats. He’s always suspected, and recent events have confirmed, that he’s not dependable in high pressure situations. He’d be better off in a place that was more controlled. Where he had less responsibility. Where he wasn't around people with guns.

Jack flips around, reads a chapter on hospital tech jobs. Boring, but he probably wouldn't suck at it. He picks up the nursing book and pointedly avoids looking at Mark, doesn’t want to watch him pretend not to be appalled by his girlish proclivities. Fuck you, Mark. Let’s see where imitating your dad’s tough guy act gets you.

Mark pulls a notebook towards him. _Headed out. See you around?_ He nods, adds his own note. _Might be back here next weekend. To study. And research._

********

Saturday morning. She’s bored. She’s curious. She’s annoyed. She remembers Mark isn’t the one who confides in her. She drives to Jack’s. Knocks on his front door; knocks on his bedroom window. As he yanks open his curtains she jump-shrieks like she does when a snake slithers past her in the garage.

“Sarah, is everything ok?” 

Two bowls of Froot Loops, one banana, fifty-five minutes of cartoons and three direct, _don’t fuck with me_ questions later, Jack coughs up the explanation he owes her.

It’s not quite what she expected. It’s not quite as surprising as it should be.

She’s driven from his place to hers’ dozens of time, including - only twice - slightly tipsy; she could do it blindfolded if she had to. She reviews their discussion and makes the necessary turns on auto-pilot. More than once she drifts onto the shoulder and has to jerk herself back into place. Notices the speedometer creeping past eighty, but she doesn’t veer off the road or into anyone, and that’s what matters.  

_Where is her fucking diary?_

She tears her room apart looking for it. Paws through desk drawers, tossing onto the floor pencils and dead batteries and notebooks, calculators and highlighters and box after box of stationery. She inches under her bed and discovers, coated in dust bunnies, her favorite bra, her least favorite tights, old issues of _Sassy_ and _Bust_ and a half empty bag of sour gummy fish ( _gross)_. She crawls to her closet and ousts from it, over her shoulder, with sharp flicks of her wrist, sneakers and sandals and flip flops and her one pair of heels. It’s not as if she expects to find her diary underneath her ski boots, she’s not a slob, but at this point it feels good to make a mess.

It's on her bookshelf, wedged in between last year’s Chemistry and US History textbooks. She flips to the last entry. April 5th. _Ugh_. She flips to the entry before that, September 30th. _Double ugh._

She gets into bed. She writes for an hour. The diary goes into her bottom desk drawer, hidden under those boxes of stationery. She doesn’t pull it out again until she has an official boyfriend (Junior year: March 17th), and after that when she has sex for the first time (Senior year: January 12th).

When she writes about those events, she re-reads the entry she made this day. On March 18th of Junior year she doesn’t finish more than a couple of pages before flipping to a fresh one and resolutely forgetting what she wrote. On January 13th of Senior year she forces herself to read it all the way through. As she reads, she cheeps and chirrups, burbles soothing nonsense words to keep the chagrin (the shame) at bay. But she no longer wishes spontaneous human combustion actually occurred, so she counts it as progress made. She reminds herself she’s older, wiser, happy. She’s no longer a clueless Sophomore who envisioned herself the Upstate New York Elena Gilbert, but of course better because she’s not stupid and annoying, surrounded by people who have so little personality they think a clod like Elena – with her _alabaster, translucent_ _skin_ and _brilliantly blue veins_ \- is god’s gift.

In her opinion, the least embarrassing parts:

_"I know what boys are like.” Ha fucking ha. Obviously I know nothing about boys and never will. If I were religious I'd convert to Catholicism and become a nun. Bonus points for the fact it would drive Dad and Mom completely insane._

_Jack knocked Mark out. Tom beat up Mark. Mark beat up Jack. All because Mark and Jack like like each other but can't be together. Men. Boys. What is wrong with them? What is wrong with me? Why am I so into them? _

_Rogue and Gambit 4-evah!_ Written ironically, but in fact one hundred percent sincere. It's one of the only sentences she writes that day that, years later, she still agrees with.

In her opinion, the most embarrassing parts:

 _Everyone has to have one boyfriend who turns out to be gay. If you think about it, I’m lucky. I got it over with early, and now I know what the signs are. Though he still doesn’t know if that’s what he is. He’s almost 18. How can he not know yet whether he likes boys or girls? How can he AND Mark like both?_ She understands a person can be bisexual. She also understands it’s yet another way for guys to be indecisive jerks. _Make up your mind! Don’t confuse the rest of us who know what we like!_

Remember when Mom gave me a lecture about sex (about _female condoms_ ugh I might as well squiggle a ziploc bag up my vagina) and I said "Mom it's not like that between us!" and she just smiled her stupid superior shrink smile.

 _Two boys were fighting – over me. Oh wait. Turns out they weren’t thinking about me at all. That they’ve never thought about me that way. I’m just the girl they pretend to like so no one knows they’re super into each other. There’s a term for that. BEARD_.

********

Mark calls one day, shortly after Thanksgiving. He asks if he can stop by.

“I’m around all day. Writing a term paper. Finals are coming up soon. Drop by whenever.”

When she was at Jack’s she tried, with moderate success, not to make their entire conversation (her thorough inquisition) about her.

“When Mark was staying at my house we….”

“I know. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.” He sounded sad. He sounded, mostly, sincere.

She played it cool, kissed Jack on the cheek before she left. But as she drove home she swore that she wouldn’t speak to him or Mark again. Unlike them, she has other friends. She doesn’t need either of them, and they obviously don’t need her. Unless they’re in trouble. Unless they want a ride. Unless they need help figuring out what to do with the rest of their lives besides sit around and get high. Well, fuck that. Once she stops talking to them they’ll figure out what they’ve taken for granted all this time, will realize what selfish assholes they’ve been. But it will be too little, too late.

She spews her mortification and humiliation onto fifteen diary pages, then stews about it for days. Stomps and snaps and sulks at everyone. At Jack. Who has to take it from her. Who should ask her for more. She trusted him, saved his ungrateful butt, and he didn't have the decency to tell her the truth until she forced it out of him. (And oooh it feels good to point out someone's stupidity right to his face. Why did she wait so long to do it?) Until her dad is displeased enough to comment. Until her mom asks "Is it that time of the month, dear?" And when she shouts "No! That is ridiculously sexist! I cannot believe you of all people would say that to me," wonders if she's pregnant.

She reconsiders. Mark's dad is Tom. It's not like he's learned how to behave from anyone normal. And Jack is oblivious. Jack is “my brand new puppy escaped from the house, ran into the road, got hit by a truck, and it’s all my fault” sad and self-loathing. Jack was, still very much is, extravagantly in love with Mark. He thought he finally had what he’d wanted for so long.

Nope.

She was – and continues to be, but not half as much as she used to be, is only a little infatuated with Mark. She thought she finally had what she’d wanted for so long. 

Nope.

She can admit that she's stupefyingly unobservant. Jack ( _Jack!)_ had to explain to her (using little words!) what was for months right in front of her face. But she doesn't feel the need to flagellate herself or anyone else to make up for it.

Boys are very emotional. Sensitive.

Maybe she and Jack are even. Both of them got a half assed version of what they wanted, and now both of them have nothing at all.

Maybe it's ok for her to let it go. It doesn't make her a complete doormat; is in fact a display of her generosity. At the end of the day, what else do they have besides each other?

Maybe it doesn’t matter. (It's not, after all, like they cheated on her with another girl.) Being in high school in this dismal town is hard enough without exiling two of your best friends. Even if they’re dishonest (lying) scaredy cats (shitheads).

The Mark that drops by is the “I showered before I came here” version, still her favorite. His hair is glossy and swept back from his eyes, like he’s not just washed it, but conditioned and styled it too. His skin is clear and flushed from walking in the cold. His baggy sweater manages to highlight his shoulders.

Since the summer, since he stayed at her place, they've hung out (fooled around) here and there. Once she realized he needed to be shown where to put his hands (his mouth), they got better at it. 

Too bad it won’t be happening any more.

After speaking with Jack, she’s used every available opportunity to flirt aggressively with Nick O. New to school, and a Junior. Miraculously with potential, inexplicably not with anyone, and as far as she knows, straight. (She's made inquiries.) Appealing in a mocha haired, face as sweet and cool as iced Ovaltine way. In a _I’ll probably attend Princeton, they love my grades and my lacrosse skills way._ In a _I drink beer but also volunteer for Big Brothers Big Sisters_ way. There’s a Winter Formal in January. He is going to ask her or she’s going to ask him herself.

They hole up in the media room and pop a movie in the VCR. They crumple up old newspapers, arrange twigs and logs. To justify lighting a fire they open the window.

She was concerned, or perhaps eagerly anticipating, that Mark would walk in and make a move on her; but after she kindly but emphatically rejected him, he'd immediately know that she knew. He'd respond with petulance or gnashed teethed or both. She’d have to reassure him that Jack didn't share details, that she wasn't hurt or jealous, pissed off, weirded out or certain that he's gay. (Even if she feels a few, and possibly all of these emotions.)

Nope.

Now that she knows what to look for (now that she's paying attention), she observes that while his body is here - lounging half on, half-off the sofa; periodically scratching his jaw (adjusting his penis); gazing with interest at the movie they randomly selected, a movie that's not particularly good but not dire enough to change; nodding along as she complains about her physics lab partner, constantly needling her but always in her face what the fuck does she want - he's elsewhere. He's killing time. Around the edges of his eyes she sees glimmers, flashes of what’s below. He seems tired. No, something less ephemeral than tired. _Weary._ Not a word she'd use to describe someone their age. Weary is what old people are.

She knows better than to ask. Talking leads to fighting. 

It’s hot. Improbably, their fire has stamina. He peels off his sweater. His shirt rides up, and she sees a dirty rainbow blotch along his side, below his ribs. But she looked away before she noticed anything. 

Her face contorts in disgust with...herself? Mark? Jack? Parents? This town? The world? She needs a distraction. They need a distraction. She’s tired of listening to herself muse and dissect, pontificate and cogitate. She remembers fun and wants to experience it. Right now.  

She strolls to the game cabinet and pulls out a deck of cards.

“Poker!”

“That’s not a two person game. I was thinking gin rummy.”

“That’s for old ladies.”

“Do you even know how to play?”

He scoffs. “Of course I do.”

“Then let’s make it interesting. If you win, I’ll pay for your weed for a month. But no stockpiling at my expense.”

He fails to suppress a victory smirk. He decides how he'll spend the cash she’s freed up.  

“And if you win?”

“Then you and Jack have to take me somewhere new. And fun. _Fun_. For the whole day.”

For a moment he looks scared, and she worries that what's she's asked for will lead to no fun whatsoever.

“Is that ok? I know you guys are hanging out again, but I don’t want to get you in trouble...”

He actually takes a minute to think it through. Gnaws the skin off his bottom lip while he deliberates. When he decides, he nods. Decisively. _Let's do this._

“You’ll have to drive us. Best of five?”

“No. We play for points. Up to one fifty?”

She wins. It doesn’t take long. She was four years old when Nana sat her down and showed her the ropes. She's spent innumerable long weekends in Boca, playing endless rounds of cards, lamenting that grandmas don’t appreciate the beach. Mark needs to be reminded they start with ten cards, that Aces are low. He has to learn what melds are; how, when and why to knock. 

He takes it well, but she feels a little evil for tricking him.

"Why don't I buy for you for a week? Because you had no chance, and I knew it." 

He laughs at her. 

“You’re so sentimental, Sarah. Where’s your killer instinct? You should be gloating. If I beat you, you think I’d be offering to take you somewhere on my dime?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe if you pulled that face you make when you don’t get your way.”

“What face?”

He imitates her, sighing, looking wistfully exasperated. She recognizes it.

“Maybe I make that face...but only when you’re aren’t listening to my very sensible suggestions. When you’re ignoring my female intuition.”

“And what does your _intuition_ say about what’s fun?”

“Anywhere but here.”


	5. Field Trip

Mark spreads out on a bench, backpack for a pillow. He watches the pedestrian streams flow, catches and releases the snippets of conversation that rise to the surface. The sun beating on his brow, the ceaseless droning from the shawl encrusted Hare Krishnas by the subway entrance are making him drowsy. Five minutes…

He wakes up. Hands over a couple of cigarettes, a couple of dollars to a shabby, quasi-homeless person and another couple (cigarettes, dollars) to a smelly, fully homeless person. 

One day it could be him – missing important teeth, track marks scarring neck and hands, torn sheets cinched round chapped, swollen calves – asking for a handout. Pay it forward, right? 

********

Anywhere but here turns out to be New York City.

It’s his idea. He’s always wanted to go, never had the chance. Sarah's been many times, but not with them. Jack has only visited as part of heavily chaperoned school trips to sites of _educational interest_. He’s nervous, needs to be repeatedly assured that a raging Tom absolutely won’t be - "I promise, I swear it’ll be fine. I won't let him find out. I’m gone all the time and he never asks where I’ve been. You won’t regret this." - waiting for them at the train station when they return. Getting him on board isn’t as easy as it used to be. It’s still not hard.

He and Jack had planned for the girly holiday activities Sarah's talked about: the tree at Rockefeller Center, the store windows on Fifth Avenue, ice skating. She set them straight days ago.

“You might have noticed I’m no longer ten years old. Why the hell would I want to do the same shit I did with my parents back then?”

“But you have all those stuffed animals in your room. I thought maybe you still liked some kid stuff?"  

“That is totally different, Jack. You still watch Saturday morning cartoons, but I’m not suggesting you visit Disneyworld.”

“Y'know, I’ve never been, it might be kind of fun. Haven’t they opened up a Universal Studios there?”

“Agh! Way to miss the point." Jack can't hide his smile. "Wait. You're being annoying on purpose, aren't you?”

"And you fall for it every time." 

He idly watched them banter; let Sarah set the agenda. On the day of, he allows Sarah to herd them from the train station, shepherd them here and there.

Until she does this.

As they exit the south end of the Square and walk down Broadway, Sarah exclaims “Oh, look. It’s the Strand!”

“The what?” he automatically replies.

“The Strand. A...bookstore.”

“A bookstore? No. Absolutely no. No fucking way. No. You didn’t mention this before!”

“It’s one the of the biggest in the world! It’s famous! It’s so New York!”

He looks to Jack for support, but all he receives is a shrug. _I’m easy. Don’t you know, these days I love books!_  

“Why is this important? We’re only here a few more hours.”

“It’s got a great, an enormous photography section, all the stuff I can't get at home. And discounted. I know you’re going to drag me to Tower Records. It’s only fair.”

“We are not coming with you.”

“That’s fine! I don’t want you here. You’ll just get in my way. Look, there’s a comic book store next door. You can go play with action figures, figure out which superhero has the biggest boobs.”

They set a time to meet. Sarah vanishes inside.  

“Change of plans.”

“Where we going?”

“East. And south. We can pick up something to drink along the way.”

******** 

He and Jack are occasional _library pals_ , semi-regular _lunch_ _buddies_. It makes sense. The library is warm. He has to eat. He and Jack are friends. Good friends. They've moved passed the past.

It took a little time to get used to. In the beginning, Mark was vexed. He's never been good at quietly sitting on his ass, being _respectful of others_. The pizza in their town sucks. And there was Jack. His shiny, open face and earnest, saucer eyes. His jittery pen and stupid hat. His wordless loop of  _I want you. I love you. But I also might hate you. If your dad sees us he’s going to kill you._ His rapt hectoring. _Why won’t you take what you want and be happy? Why do you worry what other people think? Why can't you figure out a way to leave your dad?_

He couldn't handle it for long. He preferred to wander outside in the cold.

Over the weeks, it’s gotten easier. Maybe Jack has stopped complaining. Maybe he’s stopped listening.  

Some things are the same. He talks about nothing in particular. He boasts and bitches, eats Jack’s food. Jack is quiet. Jack nods along. Jack interjects and says something mildly snarky or contrary, or something he thinks is funny; but if truth be told, if Mark has to be honest, isn't.

Some things are different. He watches Jack study and research. He listens to Jack talk about school and next year. He tries not to give Jack a hard time. About anything. 

He’s decided that if Jack were for some reason to bring up that day, even though he absolutely doesn’t want him to, but if for some reason Jack were to bring it up, very briefly, to apologize, not for any other reason than that, this time he would apologize too. He doesn’t want to talk about it. But this time he would say _I’m sorry too_. That’s it.

It hasn’t happened yet. Jack doesn’t want to talk about it either?

It’s probably for the best.

He has an urge, now and then, to throw an arm around Jack. To brush Jack’s hair out of his face when he’s hiding behind it, so he can see him when he talks at him. To let Jack rest his head on his shoulder when he looks overwhelmed. To rest his own head on Jack’s shoulder when he’s tired. He tried once, sitting next to Jack, slouching against him. Jack froze in place, then delicately pulled away. Since that day, he makes sure to sit on the other side of the table.

********

They're meandering crosstown to meet Sarah, mission accomplished. Booze: purchased (slightly more complicated than he thought it would be). Weed: smoked. Donuts and hot dogs: consumed. Alphabet City and Tompkins Square Park (respectively, the place he’s decided will be his future home and the place he will skate and do lots of drugs): inspected. Jack: conceivably actually happy, happy he’s hanging out with his friend Mark.

His head is spinning, but in a good way.  Like coffee has been injected directly into his brain and it’s awake - absorbing, recording - but there’s too much to take in and it turns round and round, deciding where to go, what to do next.  He’s been walking and walking and walking, but it doesn’t matter, he’s not tired because he’s moving towards something.

He feels loose. Potent. At the park there were two girls who looked at him and smiled. He was going to talk to Jack about them. _You think they want to smoke with us? One for you, one for me. You can have the cuter one._ But when he turned Jack was already looking at him – carefully bland, rigidly unconcerned - and asked him if he wanted an apple. 

“This was a good, the best, idea, right?”

Jack stops tracking the sidewalk and glances at him with soft, indulgent eyes. There’s a strong possibility he’s already asked this question.

“It’s pretty cool.”

“Pretty cool? This is _New York City_. The city that doesn’t sleep! More than 7 million people live here! How many people live in our shitty town? A few thousand? That’s barely even a town. That’s practically a fucking village! And like all villages, full of dimwitted yokels who’d never make it here.”

Jack bobs his head up and down, looks at him sympathetically as he fiddles with the zipper on his jacket. He doesn’t get it. Mark tries again.

"Can you imagine, if we lived here, the bad shit we’d find, the good trouble we’d get into? It would be _epic_. We’d never be bored. Just think, we’ve already been to two parks where you can skate, and there’s probably another dozen we could check out. _On the subway_ , which never closes. What’ve we seen in a few blocks? The _Hell’s Angels_ headquarters, four great record stores, three head shops, and all those tattoo parlors and sex shops. Oh! What about that Satanist place? Did you see it? And obviously there are hundreds of clubs and bars that basically never close. We could hear so much music. Live! We could find other people, people who aren't small minded, small town losers, to play with. And so many pizza – good pizza - places…we should really get a slice before we meet Sarah. Plus all that ethnic food...there was a whole street of Indian restaurants! Did you see those?”

He takes a moment to listen to what he’s said. Even for him this is expansive. Does he like Indian food?

Jack isn’t swayed. “We’re seventeen, Mark, we’re supposed to be bored. Also, we have no money. Seventeen year olds here with rich parents probably aren’t bored.  But that’s not us.”

"We could get jobs."

"Who'd hire us? Where would we live?"

“You are a small, small time thinker, Jack. It can’t be that expensive to live in Alphabet City.”

“I’m practical. I don’t want to get stabbed. Or mugged. Or mugged and then stabbed.”

He swallows an incredulous sigh. He’d forgotten that Jack’s never met a plan with potential that he didn’t reflexively reject because it might be _fun_.

“What you are is someone with absolutely no imagination.”

 “Maybe,” Jack shrugs. “Or maybe I’m just imagining different things than you.”

Well. Ok.

Wait. What the fuck?

He stops to light a cigarette. There's a pizza place across the street with a line snaking out the door. That means it’s good.

They walk and eat. Each time he takes a bite grease slides off the tip of his slice and snails down his bottom lip, onto then past his chin. He ignores it. He broods. 

Who would pass up the chance to live in New York City? No one. Except Jack. Who won’t pretend to consider the idea, not even in a fucking conversation with someone who’s been yammering nonstop for an hour about how much he wants to live here, how much fun it would be if both of them were here. He wipes his face clean with the back of his hand, wipes his hand clean on the front of his jeans.

“Where would you rather be than right here?”

Jack replies promptly, like he’s given this some thought and has been waiting for someone to ask him. “I’ve always liked the idea of living near the mountains.”

“We already live near mountains.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Those are more like big hills. I’m thinking about really big mountains, like the ones out West. Where you can’t hear cars, see the road when you’re on them.”

“So no one can hear you scream when you’re attacked by a bear?”

Jack - eyes dreamy and unfocused, lips quirked in a fully baked half-smile - ignores the jibe. “I like nature. Hearing the quiet, listening to the rivers and the birds. Seeing elk and moose and yes, even bears. Seeing a rattlesnake would be cool, if a little scary. Can you imagine going to the Grand Canyon? Standing at the top and looking eight thousand feet down at the river, the Colorado River, that’s at the bottom. You know there’s an Indian tribe that lives on the canyon floor? Even today.”

He reaches out and snags Jack’s elbow, stops him from walking headlong into oncoming traffic. They wait for the light to change. _We should get an early Christmas present for Sarah. Maybe at Tower?_ _One of the best record stores in the world. Is it at the bottom of a fucking canyon? No._

They cross the street. He re-focuses. Jack’s still talking.

“…or standing at the top of a mountain and see all around you, all directions – be that much closer to the sky, feel like you could touch it? You know, mountains look a lot different as you climb them. On the same one there can be meadows, followed by forests, followed by empty, rocky bits that look like the surface of the moon. As you keep hiking you'll see more meadows, these ones with flowers and streams, and more forests but with different trees because you're higher up, and then at the top lakes. Some are pretty fucking big. And you can camp by them, fish and swim in them, which you have to admit is kind of amazing. My dad used to take me fishing. It was relaxing. Fun.”

It must be this new weed he picked up. Jack is pretty expansive too. He can't remember the last time he heard this many words from him at once.

“….and that’s why I’d like to live there.”

Jack trails off and looks at him expectantly. Mark likes fishing. Doesn’t everyone? Has a dad who’s taken him fishing. Doesn’t everyone? Other than that, he isn’t sure how to respond.

Has Jack been reading up on mountains and nature when he’s not deciding what type of _healthcare professional_ he wants to be? Here he is, vibrating with excitement that they’re in the epicenter of the fucking universe, if only for a few hours, feeding off the kinetic urban energy, free for the first time in months. And Jack is waxing poetic about a giant hole in the ground on the other side of the country. About the quiet and the peace and the rivers and the _elk_. Which is a fancy way to say _deer_ – and there are already a million of those right outside his fucking front door. In Shit Town.

“Fishing is cool. And living out West will give you lots of chances to refine your aim, hit your target. For a change. They love guns out there.”

Mean. Snide. It comes out wrong. Like he’s holding a grudge. Which he isn’t. When you’re wasted and you play with guns, shit happens. He’s well aware. Everyone is, which is why practically no one does it.

He shouldn’t have said it. He tries to paper over his mistake.

“And the whole animals in nature thing sounds pretty great. You ever make it out there, I’ll be sure to come visit.” He picks up the pace. He’s cold, and he doesn’t want to keep Sarah waiting. Jack will be able to tell that, in his own fashion, he’s apologizing. That it's pointless to talk about it further.   

Jack doesn’t understand that he’s apologized. In the middle of the sidewalk, in the middle of the block, he hits a brick wall and jolts to a halt.

He keeps moving, encourages Jack to follow him, like he’s a furious little kid who, unless he wants to get lost, has no choice but to walk alongside his nasty big brother who kicked him in the knees, then chucked him under the chin. Because he’s _sorry._  Mark reaches the end of the block, turns around and waits. Gestures. _C’mon, c’mon, you’re going to miss the light, Jacky!_

Jack doesn’t stir. Jack isn’t going anywhere. 

He heads back. Stops at a respectful distance. _Yes, I understand you are pissed off_. He puts up his hands. _My bad_. It looks, unfortunately, like he’s begging  _don’t shoot!_   He can’t help grinning, though he knows he’s not helping his case, though it’s not especially funny.

He tries again. “Sorry, sorry. Too soon?”

“Fuck. You. Mark.” Jack _enunciates_ , extends each word to two syllables, hitting the Ks with particular emphasis. He stares at him stone-faced, dead-eyed. In disbelief of the words coming out of his mouth. In disbelief that he let such a withering bastard convince him, when _Jack knew it wasn’t a good idea_ , to go on a field trip, to get high in the park like old times, only to dredge up the event they have an unspoken agreement to never mention. Jack blinks at him repeatedly, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them wide. Hoping that the version of Mark smirking at him from the sidewalk, because the best defense is a good offense, will disappear in a puff of smoke. Will be replaced with the Mark from a year ago, from six months ago.

Jack’s an unhappy owl. His feathers have been ruffled. He wants to rush him, tackle him and beat his face in. Or cry. He’d prefer Jack attempt option one. This time, he’s ready. He centers his weight, bounces up and down on his toes.

But Jack chooses option three. Jack wants to talk about it.

“Why do you keep seeking me out? Why do you want to hang out? When it’s completely obvious you’re pissed at me, that you fucking hate me!”

“Well, you did try to shoot me. After I told you to stop kissing me. A bit of an overreaction, dontcha think?”

Strangers traipse, pace, amble by. They look amused, exasperated, interested. They comment impolitely on their choices.

“We were both totally fucking wasted!”

Jack doesn’t notice. Jack doesn’t mind.

“You called me. You came to my house. You gave me all that cough syrup and then pulled that medieval bullshit. Again! _Oh no, I’m not a fag_ ,” his voice turns low and nasty. “ _You’re not a_ _girl_. _We can’t do this anymore_. Agreeing with your crazy asshole loser dad who just beat the living shit out of you. A normal person would have used words. But not you. You don’t want to talk about it. Only girls, talk, right? Real men solve problems by getting high, handing out loaded guns and dragging their friends into the fucking woods! What is wrong with you? What do you want from me? Why won’t you leave me alone?”

Jack spits out the questions and grinds to a close.

He examines their surroundings. They’re on a side street with a random assortment of stone fronted apartment buildings, short and tall, big and small. One of them has a good sized stoop. He climbs the crumbling stairs and sits; digs around in his backpack until he finds the brown paper bag. Unscrews the top from the fifth and takes a long pull straight from the bottle. It tastes like suntan lotion. He takes another drink.

This is his fault. With his _expansive_ weed and inability to keep his piehole shut, particularly when it’s called for. He stares at his bootlaces.

“I don’t care, Jack. I. Don’t. Care. I’m not mad at you. I don’t hate you. I want to be friends. We're already friends - never stopped being friends. The old stuff, it’s old. The past is the past. Que será será. Ok?”

He sits and sips. Jack stands at the bottom of the stoop and stares at him. _Mark Mark Mark Mark Mark_. He doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to listen. He reminds himself that, these days, he’s the worst thing in the entire world.

He senses Jack shrink and deflate, climb the stairs and thump to sitting, a good two feet of pewter brown stone between them. Mark hands him the paper bag and continues to stare at his boots; he listens to him take a long swig, how he unsuccessfully stifles a choke, then a cough.

"What is this shit?" 

"It's better than Popov. And I'm fresh out of cough syrup."

Jack hisses softly, but doesn't take the bait. He chugs with determination and follows it up with the gustiest, most forlorn sigh.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Either time. Ever. I don’t know why I did those things. I would never ever do that again. No matter what.”

“I know that.”

“Maybe because I was mad. Or scared.”

“I know, Jack.”

“And I understand how things are between us, why they are, and that’s fine. It’s good. Being friends is good.”

“I know.”

Jack shivers and wipes his drippy nose on his sleeve; crosses his arms over his knees and rests his head on them. Mark skims his hand along the chipped edges of the steps, across the cracked and peeled iron railing - probing, assessing. There’s probably a lot of work available, fixing these tumbledown buildings. These incredibly expensive, tumbledown buildings.

He pictures himself living on Avenue B or C, getting off the subway and walking home. Along the way stopping to pick up milk and a six-pack from the corner store, to wash down his Thai (or Chinese or Mexican or maybe Indian because he’s figured out whether or not he likes it) takeout. Imagines himself standing in a club, near the stage; he's drinking a beer, high on something, waiting for the opener to finish so the good band, the one he came to hear, can start. Sees himself on the weekend, walking his dog. (Why not? He likes dogs. And from the amount of shit on the sidewalks that he’s almost stepped in a dozen times, New Yorkers do too. It should be a real dog, though, a fierce, protective one, not one that can be mistaken for a rat). He’s headed to…get a tattoo? Pick up some weed? Play a gig with his band? Go skating in the park. 

It’s harder than it should be.

“Mark?” Jack’s looking at him, waggling the brown paper bag. “I’m done. D’you want it?”

Now Jack’s studying the masonry, which allows Mark to study him. He’s pretending he’s not angry. Jack and his stilted nonchalance that fools no one. 

There’s a big zit to the right of Jack's chin, a sprinkle of smaller ones along his jawline. He could lean over and pinch the big one between his two first fingers, squeeze it from the bottom until it squirts. _What the fuck, Mark!_ _Keep your hands to yourself. You’ve got plenty of your own to keep you busy…_

Jack’s pretending he’s not sad.

There is one thing he can do to help him feel better. If Jack would stop being stubborn.

He inches closer, until they’re almost touching, and puts his arms around him. It’s awkward. Jack doesn’t help matters by stiffening and tilting away from him; by protesting "What are you doing? I don't think you should." He’d rather tumble down the stairs and crack his head open on the sidewalk than have their bodies in contact with each other.

But he doesn’t let go; he tugs Jack closer. _I know you like this._ _We're friends._ _People will walk by and see us. I don't mind._ Abruptly, Jack stops fighting, slumps against him ragdoll limp. He gradually leans back, eases Jack down his chest to his lap. Then releases him.

Better. This is better.

He leans on his elbows, examines the buildings across the street. Jack, curled on his side, focuses on the lumpy sidewalk below.

“I’m sorry too.”

Jack sniffs, big and wet.

“It was a stupid thing to do. I was stupid. I shouldn’t have done that to you, with the woods and the…guns.”

“Why did you?” 

He hasn’t rehearsed this part. But he has, once or twice, thought about it.

“It's dumb, but it made me feel stronger to have them. I figured that if I shot at something – a tree, a bush, the sky – and you were with me, keeping me company it'd make it all better, for a little while at least. But I was never thinking about hurting you. Ever.”

“What about you hurting yourself? Or me hurting you?”

“No. No!" This is new. "I dunno. I can’t remember.” He closes his eyes, tries to fill in the blank, electric space of that day's thought process. "Maybe? Yes? Maybe yes. I was tired and pissed off. At him. And you know how I get when I’m pissed off. With him.”

“Well, you’re not alone. I guess now I can talk about how I get when I’m mad.”

Mark looks at the skint trees standing limp in a too-thin layer of sidewalk dirt; counts the tattered plastic bags - two grey, three black, two white - wrapped round and round their rawboned branches. Across the street, the windows are thick with bedazzled pines.

His fingers rest lightly on Jack's head, on his stupid hat. “But I wasn’t mad at you, or because of you.”

“Really?” Jack slants his eyes toward him, is unconvinced.

_His head’s full of razor blades, he can’t go home. His back’s a bed of coals, he can’t stay here. His face, his eye; his eye, his face. Next week next month next year. Jack keeps trying to kiss him, but no more no more no more._

“I might've been.” Jack's still looking at him, waiting for an honest answer. He revises. “I was. Not anymore, though. Not for a while.”

Jack returns to his own sidewalk survey - the chicken wings, shattered beer bottle and multi-colored upchuck skirting the fire hydrant, the newspapers and napkins clogging the subway grate, the people passing by who believe it’s acceptable to stare because they’re doing so _discreetly_.

“Are you going to be all right?”

“At some point, sure. Why not? This will all be over.”

He takes a moment to listen to what he said.

“Who knows.”

Jack sits up. The sun, already low in the sky, dips behind a building. The temperature drops another ten degrees, and his balls climb inside him, his butt cheeks itch. His whole body is unpleasantly prickly, like someone's skating a boxful's worth of thumbtacks across his skin. He scoots even closer to Jack, doesn't give himself a moment to deliberate whether he should do this: squirrel his hands first under Jack's coat, then his flannel shirt and finally his undershirt. He rests his temple on the slope of Jack's shoulder and takes a whiff. Jack smells the same, musky and gingery, sharp and white. He feels the same, back and stomach scrawny-soft and toasty. Mark scratches his skin with blunt fingernails.

Jack whines. "Mark! Your fingers are fucking icicles!" His nostrils flare. _This is what friends do? I don't believe you._ But he lets his hands stay.

Behind them, a steel door on un-oiled hinges heaves open. Narrow heels clickity-tap as it slams shut. Two heartbeats of self conscious silence are followed by a muted cough.

They scramble to their feet.

“Sorry! We’re visiting for the day and got tired. Needed to sit for a minute.”

“No worries, take your time. Hope you’re having fun.”

But they’re already down the stairs. It’s time to pick up Sarah.


	6. Moving On

He rings in the New Year, and winter truly begins. Did summer actually happen? It's hard to bring forth the memories. Jack isn't exercised. He’s ready to move on.

He goes to school. Before class starts, instead of staring out the window, drifting, he examines the people around him. Between classes, instead of walking the halls with his head down, double-checking his laces are tied, he observes. He doesn’t make eye contact, but it’s a start.

He notices boys he never noticed before.

The art fag with the jewelry and the shirts that could be his sister’s, if he has one? He has the best voice Jack has ever heard, deep and clear, quiet and low key sarcastic. No. He’s plays the piano and takes physics, applied early decision and will get a full ride. Not in his league.

The white hip-hop kid with the Girbauds and the earrings? Cheekbones like knives. Always roller blading, and usually up for a smoke. A sense of humor beyond Beavis and Butthead.  Mercifully, not a good student. Recently broke up with a sophomore. Listened to _Girlfriend_ on repeat for three weeks afterwards.

Jack _loathes, detests_ Matthew Sweet.

The preppy guy with the light brown skin. Absolutely not his type – ambitious, clean cut and satisfied – but who acknowledges his existence when they pass each other in the halls? Is taking Sarah to the Winter Formal.

The interesting (available, fuckable) boys at Capital are...thin on the ground. That leaves the girls.

Once a week Sarah brings friends to eat lunch with them. She’s not trying to set him up, but he could broaden his social circle beyond her. He considers them. The friendly one with the braces who smiled at him when they were all playing spin the bottle, a million years ago? Even then he was in love with Mark. The less friendly one with the Jessica Rabbit lips and the Frida Kahlo eyebrows, the keeper of a fantastic secret she might share with you, if she deems you worthy? He should want to kiss her feet (suck her toes). He doesn’t. The punk one with the shaved head and rat-tail who’s fixated on skaters and informed Sarah she had sex with a senior when she was a freshman? She’s got to have issues.

********

He makes a decision.

Sarah gets part of the story. "You were right, this fits my personality. I’m not handy - would probably cut off my hand or electrocute myself the first week on site. Anything where customer service is part of the job description is a complete non-starter. The factory work is never coming back, and only a complete lunatic like Tom would mention me and the Army in the same breath." Sarah beams. "This is how big sisters must feel."

Mrs. Lincoln gets part of the story. "I can get an associate's degree in a couple of years, do more training in the future if I want, which will help me earn more money. I can help out my mom. And it's local and not that expensive. I can get grants and a part-time job, and did you know I’m an underrepresented minority in this field - pretty embarrassing but it means I should be able to get in somewhere which is always helpful because as we've talked about my transcript isn't stellar and...". She cuts him off. "Glad to hear you’ve made some progress, Jack. Let's talk next steps."

His mom gets a story outline. "College. Two years. I'm working something out. It's not going to stress you out, I don't want it to stress you out." She's relieved. She pinches his cheek. "You're a wonderful kid, I'm so lucky. Have I told you that lately?"

The real story he keeps to himself. Turns out, he likes having a secret - one that doesn’t leave the taste of iron in his mouth, one that's not soaked in dread. When he wakes in the morning and skipping sounds like a great idea he reminds himself…two and half years….nine hundred days. A stupidly long time, but five hundred days ago he met Mark. Wasn't it only yesterday he was sharing a joint, blowing the smoke out his bedroom window with his mom's boyfriend's kid; a bit of a poser but also cooler than anyone he's met in years and inexplicably believes he is too. Either way, there's no denying that Mark's beautiful. He can't stop looking at him, wants to learn what color his eyes are, but that would require even more intense staring and brushing of hair away from face. No. Too fucking weird. He’s totally high because Mark, obviously, duh, is a boy not a girl, and their parents are having sex with each other in the next room.

*******

He goes to the library. He studies, writes applications.

Mark draws, pages through magazines, snorts with derision at whatever the hell he's reading. Bounces his leg up and down and up and down and up and down, sings under his breath tunelessly and softly and only Jack can hear him. Drums his pencil in syncopation with his hand, thumps the heel of his boot against the linoleum floor, warbles emphatically and everyone can hear him. He frowns, kicks Mark's shins, drags him to the diner or the pizza place or the other diner.

He eats a couple of pepperoni slices and listens to Mark laugh about almost being eaten by a dog that was sleeping in a truck he tried to break into. "Probably should have checked the bed first. And I thought they were so stupid to have left the windows rolled down." He eats a pastrami on rye and listens to Mark describe a fight he came out on the wrong end of. He drinks a black and white milkshake and listens to Mark talk about waking up covered in vomit, sheer luck he passed out on his side and didn’t choke on it in his sleep. He picks at his cheeseburger and onion rings and listens to Mark talk about waking up in a strange girl's bed, covered in nothing at all.

"Pretty crazy, pretty cool."

He forces himself to make eye contact – mild, neutral, no judgment.

_Tell me more, if you want to. But you don't have to. No pressure._

_Do you think I’m an asswipe? I probably am. But it’s all for a good cause. We mustn’t forget I’m all about the pussy. That I don’t give a shit. And I’m having fun._

_I'm glad?_

Their silent conversations have become quite nuanced. Sophisticated.

********

After school. Longer days. Sunshine that’s more than a harsh light exposing all his inadequacies to the world. Tight skin that stretches but doesn’t quite fit, leaving him itchy and overfull.

He walks to the skate park along the railroad tracks. A freight train, clanging smoke and grimy heat, chugs and wheezes in the opposite direction. He counts the cars as they roll past. Sorts through them by color (orange, orange, brown, grey, black, black, red, green) and type (engine, engine, logs, mail, unknown liquid, unknown liquid, cars, shipping container). Automatically thinks about that day - the first that day, and the fact there are two of them still makes him want to throw himself onto the tracks, but oh look, the tag on that car’s pretty cool.

When you’ve lived in the same small town your whole life, everywhere you turn is bogged down with significance. A few memories are pleasant, the rest are the opposite. If he wasn’t capable of filtering he’d be more paralyzed with indecision than he normally is.

Thanks to this filter, he’s added the woods back to his rotation. A relief, since it's one of his top three places to go when, if he doesn't leave the house this very second, he might break something.

Convenience aside, he missed it. The rabbit and deer, coyote and bird tracks in the snow. The drifting autumn leaves and wildflowers that bloom along the paths. The sleepy turtles and the tall, scratchy grass by the pond. The tadpoles that sprout overnight in puddles of water, croak ecstatically _Spring! It’s spring! Did you know? It’s spring!_ until he walks past and they, footfall by footfall, go silent.

He doesn’t want to add to his never ending self-improvement list by reminding himself how terrible he is at this, one of his only _extracurriculars_. Settles instead for sketching lazy circles and zig zags across the pocked cement, his hardest work avoiding crumpled empties, smushed cigarette butts, and multiple plastic wrappers that once housed condoms, potato chips, pork rinds and those sweaty clots of coffee cake you can buy at the gas station. His muscles are barely firing, just enough to keep him upright. It’s sufficient for him to work up a sweat under an early May sun unfiltered by wispy pale leaves, to give thanks each time a cloud wanders by. He takes a break to peel off a layer and gulp some water. When he looks up he sees Mark coming in, headied straight for the ramp. 

It's surprising not surprising to see him. They’ve been experimenting in recent weeks with spending time outside their four safe spots. It wasn’t instigated by him. First, there was an endless winter of hushed, musty books and loud, greasy lunches. A winter of pretending, each time they ran into each other, that it was sheer coincidence; of pretending Mark's life wasn't crushing him while he, however tentatively and clumsily, was rising. A winter they were both immensely, silently grateful for: after their bone-headed fuck ups given a second chance to be friends - good friends. 

Then one day, no announcement, no fanfare, Mark showed up here. Next at his bus stop, then the record store and the music store.

"It’s warm now."

"You’re about to graduate."

Time to stop hiding out in the library."

"I was in the neighborhood and saw you through the window."

"I’m headed the same direction as you."

They skate. They walk. They sift through albums. They fart around on guitars and drums until the owner glowers and he buys an arrangement to shut him up.

Mark listens as he talks about a girl he’s interested in (not especially), a boy who’s interested in him (bullshit, but after months of listening to Mark’s escapades he feels the need to have stories of his own.) Mark hears how he’s signed up for driver’s ed, although driving scares the shit out of him, he’ll be terrible at it, and being able to afford his own car seems as likely a possibility as Mark deciding he's gay.

Jack catches him up on Sarah, school, and money, a subject he rarely thought about until a couple of months ago. His dad took care of that, and when he no longer did his mom stepped in. When the topic did capture his attention, it was in an utterly abstract way. Money was a thing most everyone else possessed scads more of than he did. Wasn't that nice for them, and too bad for him. He didn't see it for what it is. Something that's shaped how he sees the world. That's determined his past choices, dictates what's available to him in the present, circumscribes the map of his future. He gets it now. Like with sex, he has to constantly remind himself that while it's wonderful he's learned life lessons the average thirteen year old has been aware of for years, that doesn't mean he has to make up for it by turning it into an all-encompassing obsession. 

He had no clue had this many thoughts in his head.

He listens as Mark evangelizes about his recent, courtesy of a couple of the guys he works with, conversion to hip-hop. "Three words: _Enter the Wu-Tang_. Once I heard _Da Mystery of Chessboxin’_ I couldn’t listen to those white boys whine for another fucking second."

He pastes on his exponentially improved poker face as Mark mentions he's "taking a break from partying." 

He nods along as Mark expounds on baseball, which he claims he’s only knowledgeable about because Tom never misses a game. "In the fucking truck too, and he’s shouting at the radio the whole time. He can’t listen to the Yankees thrash the Blue Jays without losing his mind."  Tom aside - it's been demonstrated time and again that his very existence only makes that father-son situation more disastrous, so he does his best to altogether avoid the subject - he thinks Mark protests too much. If Mark doesn’t enjoy it why does he monologue, because it’s not like _he_ has much to contribute, about the end of the strike: parse stats, potential trades, up and comers, and whose pitching roster is strongest?

It's not the same as the winter. Which wasn't the same as eight months ago, twelve months ago, a year and half ago. That's to be expected. Mark's changing. He's changing too?

Here's one thing about him that might be new. Or might not. He's not sure, and there's no one he can ask. Something stronger than anger - rage. Despite his best efforts to push it down, to drown it, more than once it’s broken free and rushed to the surface. Useless, quiet, pointless rage that sourly fizzes and churns, that ominously steams and bubbles, that has no outlet except the person next to him. Mark’s talking and talking and talking, not saying anything unusually offensive, not doing anything freshly annoying, but he can't hear the words over the chorus in his head. _Why why why why why..._

Why can’t he and Mark – right now – get high, tear off each other's clothes and _fuck_? Why can’t he - right now - shove his hands down Mark's jeans and jerk him off, taking his sweet time, until he begs for more? Why can’t they - right now - kiss. He’d settle for kissing. Stretched out in the grass, long swipes of tongue, Mark languidly moving against him. No rush, no fear, just heat blossoming until it’s too much and he bursts.

He stabs his nails into his hands to stop himself. From grabbing Mark's arms and pressing muscles against bone until bruises flower. From shaking Mark until his spine creaks and his head ricochets on his neck. From sticking his fingers in his ears and yelling _Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Lalalalala...I can't hear you!_

Who cares about next year? About college? About music and sports, cars and work and grades? About other people? About girls? Does Mark think because they're friends he can treat him like a saint or a eunuch or a total fucking idiot?

Don’t misunderstand. Ninety five percent of the time (Ninety percent? At least eighty five percent of the time) he's good. The remaining five, ten, fifteen percent, the fury is short lived. When he gets to the point where he might lose control, do something he regrets, he closes his eyes; counts to five or twenty or fifty. Pummels the rage - the discontent, the jealousy and frustration, the psychotic horniness - down, down, down.   

They had their moment, their _catharsis_ , in New York, airing the resentment and fear they’d stuffed into trash bags, then carried around for months, letting their emotions putrefy, stink up the space between them. Replacing all that garbage with…acceptance? There’s a more precise way to think about it, acceptance being too close to resignation (acceptance being too far away from what he actually feels), but Jack can’t find the word. It is what it is. He tries not to think _why not me_ , the single instance he asked the question out loud forever a black hole of shame and humiliation that threatens to stretch and tear him into millions of subatomic particles when he comes within a mile of it.

It’s Mark. He’ll take whatever he can get. And even a greedy, never satisfied bastard like him can admit that recently, he's been getting a lot.

A few days ago, strike over and he was pretending he wasn't ecstatic, Mark persuaded him to watch minor league ball. "It'll be dumb as shit, but we should get out of town." To take a two-hour bus ride to watch kids their age - paid in room, food and a few bucks a day - approximate a baseball game. They sat in dollar bleacher seats. Cheered as the Oneonta Yankees dribbled infield hits and humped around the diamond; as the players narrowly missed being nailed in the head by the attempts of the opposing team's jumpy short stop to not just field the ball, but throw it to first base.  They got their first sunburns of the year, talked smack about the scrubs with the people sitting nearby. Ate salt dipped pretzels coated in mustard and drank flat, over-iced cokes. 

On the way home Mark fell asleep on him. He drooled on his shoulder and slid down his chest; jerked awake, repositioned and began the cycle again. He also slept, woken up by a wet finger in his ear. "We're home, sleepyhead." Didn’t notice until he was in the shower that while he was wedged against the window, mouth hanging open, road unspooling beneath him, Mark had drawn on his upper arm, with some precision, in permanent red marker, a bear taking a blissful shit in the woods. 

It was the best day he’s had in months.

He knows he should move on. He can’t move on. One day. Very soon. Not yet.

“You going to drop in today?”

“No way, not today.”

“I don’t know. Today could be the day, your day. I feel it.”

“You go ahead and feel it for yourself. I’ll observe. And learn.”

“Haven’t you _observed_ enough? At some point you have to do it. Can’t settle for running it in your head.”

“At some point.”

Mark's working on a new trick. He sits against the chain-link fence that hems the park. Watches him land on his ass, twice. Stick it a few more times; nearly sprain his elbow. Almost points out that Mark should be careful, he doesn’t want to carry him to the hospital again, but opts for knowing silence. He’s never considered himself particularly funny. Now that he’s, belatedly, developing a sense of humor he’s finding it doesn’t translate.

Mark wanders over and sits. Pulls out his pouch and rolls a joint, raises an enquiring eyebrow.

They smoke slowly. Let it die a couple of times, draw it out. Mark stretches his legs, his foot makes contact. Jack lets it be. Sneaker contact is acceptable. It doesn’t signify anything. Mark requires this minimal amount of physical connection when he’s high. When he’s lonely, bored, excited, satisfied. Tired, sad, restless, tranquil. When it’s a day that ends in Y. He's reconciled himself to it, though he wishes Mark would get a dog. He suggested it once. Mark gaped at him, slack-jawed and befuddled in lieu of reply, his humor once again a language Mark doesn’t speak.

“Want any more?”

He shouldn’t, but it’s spring. School’s almost out forever, and for once he has reason to celebrate. They finish the joint and Mark lists toward him. Their shoulders touch, their arms press together, their legs and hips rest against each other. Does it signify anything? No.

It must be the sun, the warm dirt under his butt, the suggestion of a breeze across his cheeks. Today, Mark's body against encourages him to softly daydream, in a way he hasn't in some time. He pulls a willing Mark into his lap; rests his cheekbone in the sharp hollow where his collarbone meets his neck; takes off his shirt, tastes his salty skin and Mark moans _please_ ; rocks against him until.

“Somehow, I've gotten into college? I start in August?” He’s euphoric, moves seamlessly from Mark sitting in his lap to driving to work. Punching a time card, working a shift, getting a paycheck. There are machines that _beep_ and _buzz_ and _ring_ and breathe in and out with a steady, muted _whoosh whoosh_ _whoosh._ He rolls patients on a gurney from the ambulance to the emergency room, sets up IVs, and organizes surgical instruments.

He’s started watching _ER_. It’s pretty good. It's only made him moderately certain that he's in over his head, that he will regret this decision for the rest of his life. Doctors are _fucking assholes_.

"Nurse Jack," Mark giggles. “What’ll be your specialty? Strapping down the crazies and blowing weed in their faces to calm them down?”

He doesn’t know how it happened, but Mark’s head is in his lap, and he’s twisting his fingers through his hair. That’s ok. Head rubs are therapeutic. Platonic. It doesn’t signify anything.

 

 


	7. The Outer Ring

A raw October afternoon. He rambles, finds himself in the basement of the town library. Mold, layered dust and gently disintegrating paper clog his nose, fill his eyes, but it’s warm, dry, and empty. There are even a few windows near the ceiling, currently letting in a wash of tarnished light, but he can picture the stripes of sun that on another day would lay along the floor, alleviating the sense that he’s at the bottom of a fluorescent well.

He’s staring at a shelf of books, deciding if he should hide out in the bathroom before closing, stay overnight and sleep on the surprisingly comfy couch that’s along a back wall, hidden from casual view, when he hears someone _gulp_ and _sniff_. Jack.

Jack explains and explains. He’s polite but distant. Jack leaves. He’s curious and bored.

Mark sits with him, pages through magazines. Learns the importance of matching rod, reel, lure and line; how to organize a destination wedding in the Caribbean; that the Fishman Bass Blender is absolutely worth the price.

Jack, pouty and defensive, thinks about his future. _I don’t want to be here. What’s the point. I should give up, sling pizzas. It's all I'm good for._

Too naive, too serious, too much. He heads outside to smoke, continues to ramble.  

********

Girls. He remembers he likes them; remembers if he smiles and bothers to brush his teeth, they like him back. He’s never had a preference more specific than _pretty/cute/hot_ and on more than one occasion has foregone this broad standard for the broader one of _willing_. This trend continues.

He keeps it simple. He puts his tongue in their mouths, his hands on their breasts. They put their hands on his dick, their mouths on his dick. If someone wants more, he obliges. Why not?

Sarah is different. He wants to do better by her. Sarah isn’t different. He doesn’t.

********

He continues to not mind, even like, his job. Naturally, it gets repetitive. Not surprisingly, it's tedious to stand all day. That’s what Ritalin is for.  

The guys are tolerable. They're fine. They’re regular, boring types with girlfriends or wives; kids and pets; car payments and house payments. The ones a few years older than him have already tied themselves down, proudly sport blurred jaws and matronly thighs.

Aware of his back story, they were in the beginning full of condescension. A couple of months in, they began to take his presence for granted. Today, they don’t pay him any mind. He thanks them by buying breakfast for his ride, not believing they’re interested in what he has to say, finishing the job he's been assigned. Doing it again the next day.

It works for him. When he realizes it, he’s surprised.

********

He reviews those seconds in the woods, beating the shit out of Jack. He felt alive, strong for those few moments. He felt a release. He'd like to feel that again.

At the park one night a passerby brushes against him. Mark shouts _Hey!_  When he turns he gets a punch straight in the solar plexus for his trouble. He didn’t think it through carefully. His intended victim’s stronger than he looks and not timid. Luckily, he's fast, and not too proud to run away.

He tells Jack – why not, it’s funny – but he doesn’t laugh.

********

He trains an eye on Jack and his post-graduation plans.

Mark’s amused. Look at Jack, growing up. Putting himself out there, not hiding under his sweatshirt hood, not lurking behind his hair.

Mark's disdainful. Jack has never held down a job: not bagging groceries, not pumping gas, not mowing lawns. Yet suddenly, for no particular reason, because Sarah told him he would, he’s decided he’d be good at spending all day working in a place full of sick people. Dying people. How typical.

Mark’s relieved. He’s been swimming against the current for months. Any day his arms could drop like stones, his legs refuse to thrash. He might bob about like a piece of beach trash scooped up by the waves, slowly and steadily wash out to sea. Jack’s new way to occupy, to satisfy himself decreases the weight on him, the weight that makes it that much harder to keep his head above water. 

********

He kicks over trashcans, knocks over mailboxes, breaks into vending machines. Shoplifts trinkets from the dollar store and canned goods from the supermarket. Liberates useless goods from unlocked cars. Everything he acquires that's not edible he tosses shortly afterwards. Except for the time he found a Discman. That he gave to Jack. 

********

He’s never been to the city but - traveling up and down the East Coast with his dad, driving from one rusting, sagging, seen better days town to another – he’s seen it. Watched the skyline materialize from the endless, gunmetal miles of malls, road signs and highways, bridges and overpasses and rest stops; from the steaming, belching power plants heralding huff shallowly through your mouth industrial wastelands. When it’s overcast the skyscrapers are a jagged seam, a mouthful of broken teeth. When it’s clear, the pollution hangs over their spires like a veil. Sunlight bounces off miles of glass and steel – sharp with promise, so bright it hurts.

At night the buildings glow, painting the dark sky purple, streaking the black clouds orange. Dozens of planes wink, low hanging stars, before one by one, three by three, they fall to earth. 

They crawl over bridges and advance through tunnels. They pass fast moving tentacles of water that have the stomach flu. Bilious waves toss, mucky foam froths. _Stay away unless you want me to be sick on your shoes_. That twinkle and flirt. _Come on in. Ignore the needles and used condoms, the broken bottles, plastic bags and dead fish_. _Aren’t I pretty?_  

That’s when he understands, really understands it’s an island, a tiny island. Millions of things, millions of people, packed into a few square miles. Going somewhere. And he can only have it like a postcard. _Welcome from the Big Apple_.

********

He's staying away from home for as long as possible. Current record: five days. It takes some creativity. When it was warmer he slept at the park, in his dad’s truck, under the bleachers by the football field, by the bridge. As winter kicked in, he added in the library, the attic space, other people’s houses, the ten screen movie theater a couple of towns over. He rotates. One night in each, working methodically down his list before going back to the top. He doesn't want to get caught, wear out his welcome, be harassed.

One place he could go, but doesn't: church. Not inside, not outside. People looking for souls to redeem ask too many questions.

He waits for his dad to get mad. At first, he does. Beginning with his face (always with his face), working his way down. He doesn't take it as abjectly as he used to. The outcome remains the same. 

Then, Dad does nothing. Not when his time away extends to six days, then seven. He doesn’t explain his change of heart. Mark doesn’t ask him to.

He weighs whether it would be too risky to, once in a while, sleep at Jack’s place, in the top bunk.

Jack probably got rid of it and has a single bed.

********

Today he’s working on a monstrosity of a Victorian house. The skeleton reminds him of Sarah’s place. The resemblance ends there.

Once expansive, high ceilinged rooms have been divided, re-divided and subdivided until you’d think rabbits were the primary residents. Uninsulated, cotton covered electrical wires nest in thick tufts of dog hair ( _inside the plaster walls_ ). There are warped and scarred wood floors, ruptured staircases, cracked windows and sagging doors. There's Swiss cheese plumbing and the ceiling mold to prove it. Splintered baseboards peel away from walls slathered in asbestos laden paint, which they only discovered after scrubbing away layers of bad acid trip wallpaper. When he worked on the teardown there were possums in the attic and feral cats in the backyard. 

He’s done the motherfucking tedious, the most essential work. The stripping and stripping and stripping. The re-plastering, patching and skim-coating, the sanding and priming. Now he can paint, less effort and at least the homeowners see progress when they stop by, when they try not to visibly shit their pants at how slow the work is progressing, how over budget they already are.

Mark cuts the room. Another house that wants to masquerade as an Italian mansion, each room a different earth toned, soothing color: Red Clay, Burnt Sienna, Rosewood, Toasted Pine Nut. Pink and beige, brick and cream. Like a toddler with a summer tan, like everything at Sarah’s house.  

He sets up his roller, strains paint into a five-gallon bucket. Rolls it on the wall, then lays it off in long strokes, straight up and down, picture molding to baseboard with a bump at the end. His back and shoulders stretch, the wet rope knots in his forearms and hands fractionally slacken.

Step back and review. Smooth and even. Not too thick, not too thin. He nods. He talks to himself. "Pretty good."

********

Jack continues to worry that his dad will see them. It's unlikely. Even in small towns, paths don't cross if you don't want them to.

If Dad does run into them, he wouldn't mind.

What more could he do? What does it matter?

********

It’s cold and snowy and cold and dark and cold and February. On a Friday night, he gets a little carried away. He staggers home, but before he can make it inside he falls asleep outside the body shop, too out of it to bother with complicated tasks like fitting a key into the outside door lock. He might not have woken up, but a Good Samaritan checks his pulse and shakes him awake. He helps him figure out how to use his key, and he weaves his way up the stairs and into bed.

That would have been a disgraceful way to die. Definitely top ten, possibly top five. 

In other winter news, Sarah’s teaching him chess. If it’s good enough for GZA and Method Man...

********

He watches the Rangers. Baseball is tolerable. Hockey has nothing to recommend it, except for the fights. These days, he’s in it for the fights.

Dad’s feeling philosophical.

“Why do you think I pulled you out of school, got you a job?”

_Because you’re an asshole. Because you hate me. Because you wish I'd never been born._

“You think it was to get you away from that fairy.”

_Because you’re a miserable failure._

“You gave me no choice. Even if they let you graduate, for no other reason than to be rid of your miserable face, you wouldn’t have made it through basic. That cringing little girl is a better candidate for the service than you are.”

_Because you're looking for an excuse to grind me into dust._

“And if you’re too useless to make it in the goddamn Navy, forget about the Marines, the least you could have done is show up at school and do your fucking work. Try to make something of yourself. You think I’m going to support you forever?”

_Because making sure I have nothing gives your life meaning._

“Did you have a plan for finishing high school – a plan for what you’d do after high school - that you didn’t bother to share with me, that my getting you a job got in the way of? Of course not. You were too busy being a delinquent. Sneaking around with that boy, doing things you knew perfectly well you shouldn't.”

_Because you can’t stand to see your own kid be free. Would rather he was dead than belong to someone who doesn’t hate him._

“Has it ever crossed your mind to say _Thank you, I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me_ instead of _I hate him_? Stupid question. Even now, with a job - a real job - handed to you on a platter, you’re trying your best to get fired. Just remember, you’ll be eighteen soon. And my time with you is done.”

_I wish someone would kill you. I wish I could do it myself. I wish someone would kill you. I wish I could do it myself. I wish..._

He scowls at the TV. He keeps his piehole shut.

********

He’s a ghost? A zombie?

No matter where he spends the night, these days sleep is hard. Tonight he’s in his own bed. Awake. Thoughts burst into his head and shout _Hey! Asshole!_ When he turns, they run away. He gives chase, gets a hand on them, but they squirm free and disappear.

Focus. He needs to focus.

A cockroach. A giant one that’s ended up on its back, legs pedaling feebly, unable to right itself. Too disgusting to flip over and send on its way. Too disgusting to squash with a heavy boot and put out of its misery. No one has ever felt sorry for a cockroach.

He sits up and turns on the light, draws a picture of it, adds it to his wall.

 ********

He meets these guys who on the weekends head to big towns, small cities. He tags along. Winds up at a house where heroin’s being snorted. He tries that. Tries it again. Winds up at a house where crack is being smoked. He tries that. Tries it again.

It’s not that cool, but it gets him out of his head. He doesn’t mention it to Jack.

He trips on X. That’s fun. He tells Jack about it, but isn't sure whether he agrees.

********

Spring moseys in. He emerges from his cave – tattered, unsteady, gaunt. Dazzled by the light. Says good-bye to stuffy library, sticky car seats, stale basements and shit town diners. Says hello to the park, the abandoned field behind the bar, the bus stop, the parking lot behind the Cineplex.

********

He continues to keep an eye on Jack and his post-graduation plans. He listens to Jack talk about another girl, another _boy_.

Mark’s not as amused, relieved and disdainful as he used to be. He’s uncertain? Inquisitive. He’s got some questions.

He doesn’t ask them.

********

He’s been reprimanded. By someone who isn’t his dad. It’s humiliating. Infuriating.

Meleck drew the short straw, was tasked with pulling him aside and telling him "Sleep, take a fucking shower and eat something. Every day. Stop getting yourself knocked around. Stop showing up to work high or hungover or both. They’re going to quit giving you jobs. That means you’re about to be fired."

He attacked. "Fuck off. I’m just fine the way I am, and my work is too. Why the hell should I change for assholes who don’t give a shit about me?" Meleck wasn’t impressed. "Stupid, ungrateful kid. Dig your own grave. That’ll show us. Don’t say we didn’t warn you." No one offered him a ride home.

********

He’s in town on a Saturday and sees a girl on the street. Flat as a board, no tits or hips to speak of, with tendrils of dirty blonde hair that skim the tops of her shoulders. She’s wearing a wind breaker, washed out, baggy jeans (dorky Gap jeans), sneakers and a baseball cap.

He doesn’t recognize her. Maybe she’s a tourist, on her way to participate in a wholesome activity - hiking – and stopped to pick up snacks. Maybe she’s a college student visiting family.

Small towns are very particular that you acknowledge everyone you pass, even if you don’t know them. Why it’s necessary he still doesn’t understand, but he can, most of the the time, manage the nicety. When he can't he reverts to scowls, knowing smirks, or hands in pockets, fixated on boots, walking too close.

Today, he’s not feeling rude. He's not feeling polite, either. Which means he settles for brief eye contact and turning up the corners of his mouth, halfway between a smile and a grimace. She flicks her eyes at him, mirrors his expression and keeps walking.

At the end of the block he turns around. She’s headed towards the convenience store. He needs a pack of cigarettes. A soda and some Cheetos? He walks behind her, watching her bony ass. After a couple of blocks she abruptly stops and turns on her heel. He’s so close he steps on her shoes.

“Can I help you?”

He has to look up. Her lips are thin, her face is long and her nose turns up a little at the end, like a ski jump. Her eyes are huge, blue green with flecks of gold (is this what hazel looks like?) Her eyes are loud. _Are you following me, you fucking creep?_

He cringes. He blushes. “No, no, sorry, sorry. I need something over this way and got distracted.” Jogs past her to the store.

********

Turns out that homebound activities don’t use much energy. When bedtime rolls around – too soon, not soon enough – the weed doesn’t unravel him sufficiently to bring on sleep. He lies in bed. _Awake_. His mind spins: gently, continuously. Thoughts drop into view. _Hello, hello, hello!_ Quieter than previously, but still insistent. He wants to ignore them, but they’re patient, steady, not going anywhere. Waiting for his flabby brain, unused to the exercise, to catch up.

********

He has a plan, a good one: convince Jack that taking a two hour bus ride to watch short season, single A ball will be fun.

He’s getting warmed up when Jack interrupts.

“Sounds good. I’m in.”

*********

It’s Friday, sunny and warm and May. Jack will be at the skate park. 

Today he’s clumsy, repeatedly falls on his ass. Jack sits against the fence. Pretends he’s not amused.

He’s too far away.

Now it’s almost right. They’re both leaning against the fence, shoulders and hips, arms and legs touching.

The weed gets him thinking, thinking that he wants to rest his head.

While Jack’s eyes are closed, Mark sneaks onto his lap, brushes his head against Jack’s hand. He automatically starts rubbing it.

 _Ha_. He’s very stealthy. A ninja.

Jack’s fingers massage his scalp, draw circles and triangles and shapes he doesn't recognize. They untangle the ends of his hair; graze the nape of his neck, the bony knob at top of his spine. The quietest groan escapes him.

“What?!?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s nice. Keep going, if you want.”

He’s sinking into the grass, into Jack’s lap. He can’t feel his bones.

He’s a puddle of ice cream. No. A jellyfish that’s been tossed onto the beach. No. A cat. A sleek, rumbling cat. A content, peaceful cat.

********

He is pathetic and laughable, masochistic and self-defeating. He needs to move forward, like a shark, never look back. He should make new mistakes, not repeat old ones.

He should stick to girls. He likes girls. Girls like him. _Other people like him when he likes girls._

He should focus. On not getting fired. On not getting the life kicked out of him.

He would have to be sneaky and purposeful and thoughtful. He’s isn’t any of those things. He doesn’t want to be any of those things.

He is an asshole. An emotional schizophrenic. A careless, vacillating shithead who wants what he can’t have, then freaks out when he gets it. He’s irresponsible and undisciplined, reckless and aimless, and soon enough he’ll be homeless. He hurts strangers. He hurts his friends. He hurts himself. He’s only happy when he’s on something. He makes out with (he fucks) skanky girls and doesn’t care who knows it. He shares the opinions of imbeciles, including (especially) his dad.  

(He wakes up in the morning and is...disappointed.)

Jack is an idiot. He wears ugly clothes. His nose is too big for his face. He’s the type you laugh at, not with. He’s a virgin. The only person Jack’s ever seriously tried to hurt is him. He’s immature – a child - incapable of grasping reality unless you beat him over the head with it. He’s too sincere, too serious, and ridiculously easy to manipulate. He’s not scared that people will sneer at him (beat the shit out of him) for liking boys. He’s going to be a fucking nurse. 

Jack is a case of hives. No. Something grosser. Jack is a case of chicken pox or eczema or scabies that produces an itch that he should, that he must ignore; that he does ignore ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent it’s much harder to pretend his skin isn’t on fire. It’s all he can think about. He wills himself not to scratch, but longs - yearns to.

 _But he’s perfectly aware it’s not good for him,_ _so he won’t_. 

 

 


	8. Déjà Vu

A typical morning, day, evening. He eats breakfast, goes to school, skates, comes home, eats dinner, watches TV, goes to bed.

He’s asleep, submerged in that deep dark water where he can’t see his dreams. He opens his eyes and notices someone lying next to him. He’s not surprised.

Four seconds later he wakes up. Bounces to sitting, thwacks his head on the top bunk and _squeals_.

“Hey.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I still have a key.”

“My mom….”

“Sleeps like the dead. And don’t fucking ask about my dad.”

“Can I ask why you’re trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Was wondering if you still had the bunk bed, figured I'd stop by to see for myself.”

“And you're not in the top bunk because...?”

Déjà vu.

The porch light’s off, but it’s a cloudless, big moon night. Eerie, white light is pouring through his unshaded window, shining directly on Mark: on his back, stripped down to bare chest and boxers, smirking at him with lazy eyes, the washed thin sheet that he's been sleeping under since elementary school loose around his hips. Like Mark planned it this way. Like Jack tells himself not to fantasize about because it will never happen again. First hell will freeze over, then pigs fly. Kurt will come back from the dead and get the band back together, without Dave because he wants Jack to take his place, before Mark's in his bed again. Before he has a chance to suck that spot below his ear, smell his neck, kiss down his chest and stomach and

_No._

Mark’s (obviously) high and (forever) impulsive, the king of mixed signals. If something were to happen - not that he's thinking anything will happen - Mark will regret it two days later; he'll regret it five minutes later. After something happens, but nothing is going to happen, and Mark launches into his inevitable excuses - _my dad the guys let me tell you about this girl_ \- he will assault him in an attempt to keep him. Or to put them both out of their misery. Everything will go to hell. Again. 

That is why nothing is going to happen. That is why he’s going to tell Mark to go home. 

He inches toward the wall to give him more space.

 _Why the hell are you here? What the fuck do you want? Why are you doing this to me?_ Any minute, he’s going to ask.

Jack rests his cheek in his hand. He drinks Mark in.

He spends the majority of his day, even when he’s in a crowd, alone. He’s not had much cause to scrutinize faces, establish what others want from him. The answer’s right on the surface: nothing. But his alarm clock is telling him it's two in the morning, and he can see with his own two eyes that Mark’s returning his stare, cryptically. It's two in the morning, and Mark wants something from him. 

What does he want? He thinks he knows. He doesn't want to speculate. He'd rather pinch Mark's tongue between thumb and fingers and pull it out as far as it will go, further, read what's written on it. Cut a neat circle around the top of his head, Hannibal Lecter style, lift off the top and scoop out a teaspoonful of brains; let the words stored in their spongey depths speak for themselves. 

He'd give up his very own left nut if it would help him understand, truly understand, what Mark's thinking. What he hopes to achieve by breaking into his house, slinking into his bed, waiting for him to wake up so he can.

He reaches out with his index finger and touches the tip of Mark’s nose. He snuffles, but doesn’t bat his hand away. He brushes Mark’s hair off his eye and loose limbed, he leans into his touch. He sketches sharp cheekbones and chapped lips. Traces the edges of collarbones; draws across nipples and the downy beginnings of chest hair; outlines one, two, three, four ribs. Mark murmurs and sighs. He purrs. He’s focused. On him.

Why isn't he asking the very sensible questions he knows he should ask? He’s disoriented. He’s not the type to have serious conversations in the middle of the night. And let's not forget that Mark probably needs a place to sleep tonight. It would be rude to bring attention to why that's the case.

He makes his way to Mark’s stomach, to firm muscles under taut skin winter, fishbelly pale. Glowing. He wants to lick them, feel how they'd quiver against his tongue, wordlessly ask for more. He wants to see Mark's back arch with anticipation, his hands stiffen, face slacken with need. For him. He settles for resting the flat of his hand above the sheet. He does not look down. He will not look down.

He's not asking the questions that are, undeniably, in his best interest to ask because he doesn’t want answers to them. Not yet. For months he’s been nothing but acceptable and appropriate. He hasn’t asked for anything; he didn’t ask for this. But since it’s happening can’t he, just this once, not talk and enjoy it?

Jack watches his hand rise and fall. He listens to Mark, the hitch in his breath as he slides from inhale to exhale, the rustle of sheets as he unconsciously moves. He smells weed and soap, toothpaste and shampoo. This is good. Nothing more needs to happen. His eyelids are heavy.

“Jack.” Insistent. _Wake up_.

His whole body flails, like when he snaps awake in the midst of a cliff diving dream, milliseconds before he hits the ground with a fatal thud.

“Your jacket! It’s in my closet.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

He doesn’t know.

“ _Jack_.” Hoarse. _I want to sex you up_.

He promises, he swears, that in the morning he will hold Mark accountable.

Mark rolls to his right and pushes him onto his back. Throws a leg across him. Envelops his side and rests his lips against his shoulder

Instead of dragging Mark on top of him and shoving his tongue in his mouth, finesse be damned, he asks “What’s going on?” He’s hard against Mark’s stomach. Mark’s hard against his thigh. Clearly, both of them know what's going on, but he doesn't want to _assume_.

Alternating with his naked math dreams and falling off a cliff dreams, his house being condemned and Mom and him becoming homeless dreams, are the Mark is a douchebag dreams. They start wonderfully. He and Mark are somewhere that’s not their stupid, small shit town. They’re friends, best friends, on the verge of something good. There’s no Tom, no Mom, no Sarah. Only the two of them. They eventually get there – the somewhere else, the something else. It’s more than good. It's amazing. There are none of Mark’s hang-ups, not an ounce of his bullshit. _Let’s not talk about it._ _No one can find out_ . But almost immediately it goes sideways. Mark is cruel and dismissive and bored. Not because he’s scared or homophobic, but because he’s _not interested in Jack that way_. In retrospect he sees the signs, clearly posted, but in the moment he was too exhilarated, in too much of a hurry, to pay them any mind.

Maybe he’s having this dream right now?

Mark doesn’t reply. He pulls the sheet back, wriggles down and nudges his legs apart; settles himself on his stomach between them and makes some adjustments. Like he’s going to be there a while and needs to be comfortable. Mark runs his hands across his boxers - he forces himself not to thrust, not to yearn - and grips the elastic.

Jack waits. And waits. Props himself up and looks down. Mark’s looking back at him. Obliquely. He whispers a scared "Mark…" Followed by a confused "Mark?" He’s in the middle of a stop fucking with me "Mark!"

And Mark noses his dick until it springs free of his boxers. He lightly scrapes his teeth, laves his tongue from base to head. He laps his leaking slit, sucks on his tip. Not once, but over and over, again and again. 

He should be doing something other than making eyes at Mark and ordering _don't move, don't grab his hair, don't push him down_ , but he’s unfurling, stretched tight, sailing. If he stops concentrating this will all be over in a few seconds, and this must never end.  

Mark pauses and looks straight at him, eyes hot and amused. _Now do you understand what’s going on, shit for brains?_

This expression, he comprehends.

Jack's next "Mark" thrusts and yearns (implores, grovels) and he responds by yanking down his underwear, wrapping his hand firmly around his dick and covering the rest of it with his mouth. 

Does he need to say this is different from the other times?

This is different from the other times.

Mark's mouth is a slick tight wet furnace. Here and there he comes up for air, but he doesn’t hurry, doesn't stop – doesn’t change his mind. His tongue swirls. He hums against his dick. He _moans_ against his dick. Mark can’t get enough. Of this. Of him. Of Jack.

It’s too much. Mark swallows and inches to the top of the bed. Jack takes him in hand, but he’s already damp and tacky, softening; mutters "it’s been a while" and flops on his stomach next to him, arm heavy across his chest. 

Mark’s thought process continues to be opaque. The sensible questions clamor, demand to be asked. The sensible questions he refuses to ask, for fear of what the answers will be. Tomorrow. He’ll ask tomorrow.    

To be honest, he’s uncomfortable. He's lying in the wet spot that’s leaked through Mark’s ratty underwear. Come is dripping down his inner thigh. Teaspoons of splooge are cooling, congealing under his ass and calves, gumming them to the mattress. He wants to reach for his boxers and dry himself, but is afraid to spoil the moment.

Good call. Because time passes and Mark scootches on top of him, bed squeaking awfully loudly now that you mention it. He isn’t wearing any underwear, and Mark's pressed against every inch of him, lips a millimeter away. Jack’s overwhelmed. He'd like to cry, but that would send the wrong message. He abstains.

Mark kisses him once, twice, three times...sloppy, sweet, slow. He's exploring, making sure nothing's changed; he's thrusting against him in no particular rhythm. Jack pulls his knees up, to cradle him between his thighs. He wraps his arms around Mark's shoulders, brings him in tight. They kiss, and sounds - unmoored, animal - are yanked from his throat. He's growling, groaning. It's not enough. He needs more contact. 

It goes on like this - kissing, kissing, more kissing - no longer slow, no longer soft. He’d forgotten how much Mark likes kissing. How he sucks his lower lip into his mouth, nibbles on his tongue. How he nuzzles and bites his ear, mumbles into it as he grinds against him, and he should listen to what he’s saying, it’s definitely important, but all he can hear is _MarkMarkMarkMarkMark_.

Eventually (finally) Mark pulls down his soggy excuse for underwear. Jack, totally hard again, for the first time since he woke up doesn't simply accept, but absorbs that Mark is naked, in his bed, and at any moment will come all over him. Again. This is not a dream. Something is happening. This is happening. The thought shifts him from turned on to frantic. He rakes his nails along Mark's shoulders and flanks, pushes his heels into his butt, draws him in. He needs him closer. It's not enough. Mark yanks his hair, maneuvers him to get better access to his neck. Alternately licks and sucks and chews on it. If he owned turtlenecks - which he obviously doesn't, he's not that big a loser - it wouldn't make a difference. It's May. How is he going to explain this?

Mark's rubbing and pushing, along his stomach and against his dick. Between his cheeks, and this is new. He's pretty sure he heard Mark, sticky and urgent and hungry - for him - say "Jack" when he got there. Because he was somewhere he wanted to be. And he's pleading. "Please Mark. Please Mark. Please." Unsure what he’s asking for. Positive he’s asking for him to take the next step and put something – tongue, fingers, dick - in his ass. But he’s heard they need lube for that, he doesn’t have any, and they're running out of time.

"Jack. Shut up. Your mom." 

He wants to fucking laugh. Isn’t that his line? Then Mark lifts himself up, braces himself on one arm, takes both of them in one hand. He had no idea this was a thing. You can do this? Why didn’t they do this before? They slide against each other, almost past each other. But Mark’s in control. He sets the pace, hard and fast this time, and Jack bites his lip like his life depends on it, so he doesn’t groan or curse or give voice to the roar in his head. _I love you. I love you. I love you._

When it’s all over (again), Mark rolls off him and stretches. Toes and fingers flex and spread, joints crack and snap. Mark buzzes with quiet satisfaction. 

He falls out of bed and wipes himself off. Steps into fresh boxers; snatches t-shirts from the floor and uses them to cover the wet spots on the bed. His fastidiousness is amusing, but Mark allows himself to be scrubbed down. Jack pulls him close and fights to stay awake. It’s Mark, and he’s right here. But he’s already drifting away.

When he wakes up, Mark is gone. His first instinct is to be furious: that Mark thinks it's acceptable to fuck and run; that he enabled it. His next is to be depressed: that Mark hasn't changed, will never change; that he knows this yet continues to let his dick (his heart) be in charge.

He tells Mom he’s coming down with something and stays in bed all morning. He needs to figure this out. He replays the night a hundred times, doesn’t make any headway. Decides he’s not going to obsess further beginning…now. He’ll wait and see. Whatever happens, happens. That was more than he expected from Mark. That was, probably, more than he deserved from him.

 


	9. Snakes, Fists and Barbed Wire

Mark drops out of sight. He continues his old routine: eats breakfast, goes to school, skates, comes home, eats dinner, watches TV, goes to bed. He commences a new routine: fills out paperwork, borrows money, is granted money, learns that textbooks are not only incredibly expensive, but that he is expected to buy them. He sleeps less peacefully than he used to.

Two indicators he’s not as stupid as he used to be:

 _One_. He doesn’t reach out to Mark. Each one of the dozen times a day he debates whether he could get away with casually strolling past his apartment or calling him on the phone to say _hey_ \- he’ll hang up if Tom answers, he’ll duck into a nearby store if Tom is on the street - he reminds himself _whatever happens, happens._ He reminds himself _remember how well things turned out the last time you dropped by Mark’s to say ‘hey’_. He resigns himself to not knowing, to swimming in guilt and fright. He resigns himself to resenting Mark, who has once again made him guilty and frightened for doing something no reasonable human being could argue is wrong.

 _Two_. Seven days after Mark sneaks into his room, he drags Sarah to the attic space. 

"This is the scene of the crime, where it all went down? Guys are so gross." 

He gets high, tells her if she joins in he’ll share good gossip with her, and spills his guts. She is scandalized and titillated, demands specifics he refuses to divulge, dispenses ball busting advice he pays no attention to.

“Y’know…Jack.”

“Hmmm….?”

“You are lucky. Boys are lucky.”

“Ok.”

“You’re supposed to ask _Why is that, Sarah_?”

“Why is that, Sarah?”

“Because you have a penis. And you’re interested in penises. They’re not pretty, but they’re not complicated. I bet Mark had no problem giving you an orgasm.”

“I’m not listening to you. You aren’t really saying this.”

“Boys don't understand the clitoris. Most of them barely know it exists. And when you show it to them, assuming they don't say _ew gross_ , it’s not like they can stay on it. It takes practice – experience – and most of them don’t have it. Most of them don’t care to get it!  Which means you have to keep helping them out, and how are you supposed to relax and enjoy if you’re doing half the work? Giving directions like he's from out of town and was too damn lazy to look at a map before he started driving?”

“Are you still mad at me about last year? Haven’t I been punished enough? Shouldn’t you be talking about this with Nick?”

“Don’t change the subject. We’re not talking about me. I’m just saying, the greater surface area works to your advantage. Besides, I've decided that while penises have their uses, what really interests me about boys is their _emotional opacity_."

“Are you trying to tell me something I’m too high to understand? We never got that far, did we? Though I’m sure I was terrible. I’m really sorry about that. And I don’t know where...the clitoris is either. If I make it with a girl again, I’ll be sure to ask her to show me. I will care, I promise.”

“Next time Mark won't shut up about a girl ask yourself - ask him - if he got her off. And how he knows. I bet you’re coming out ahead. No pun intended.”

“Jesus Christ…fucking kill me now. Please.”

"Oh, Jack. I know you're as much of a horn dog as the rest of us. Quit pretending to be shocked."

********  

Sixteen days after Mark sneaks into his room he calls him, wakes him up before nine on a Saturday. He asks if Mom is around, if he can stop by. Mark must hear his heart stop, because he hastens to reassure him. “There’s no problem. Seriously. I have free time, want to hang out.”

Jack turns on the TV. For once, he's awake and can catch _Batman_. Plus, Mom bought Cocoa Krispies. Today will be a good day.

It's a standout episode he's seen before: Harley and Poison Ivy running circles around everyone, giggling like mad because they are. Until they fuck it up once again. Why, why, why won't they leave town, together, and live happily ever after? Together. 

He can't enjoy it. Bowl balanced precariously on his knees, cereal dissolving into liquid mush, he stares, glassy eyed, at the screen. All he sees is Mark: on his floor and in the woods. At the park, the library and the diner. Sitting on the bleachers, spread across the attic sofa. Sleeping in his bed. Kissing him, laughing at him, talking at him. Resting his head in his lap. Throwing a gun at him, moving away from him, moving towards him. Beating the shit out of him.

The credits are rolling when he finally admits defeat. He squishes the bowl into a corner of the sofa and curls in on himself; presses heels of hands into eye sockets. He chants.

"I’m in charge. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. I’m in charge. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do."

He opens the door, though he''d much prefer to step onto the deck and shut the door behind him; or talk to Mark through a closed window. Mark looks...not homicidal, not suicidal. He seems relaxed, happy to see him. He's in jeans and a t-shirt so white it has to be new, and there's not a single bruise on his face. Mark shares a lopsided, self-effacing grin - _it's been a while, and the last time I saw you we were wearing fewer clothes_ \- and sticks his hands in pockets. Brownish-blondish wisps of hair are standing straight up and sideways. One backpack strap is falling off his shoulder. On his lip there's a smudge of dried toothpaste.

Perhaps it's an external reflection of Mark's internal turmoil (the outward reflection of his batshit craziness), but he never looks like the same person from one day to the next. Today he resembles nothing so much as a little kid coming home from the playground. Jack's reminded that while the only thing in the world he unequivocally desires is for Mark to get over himself and admit that he not only loves him, but wants him, Mark's only seventeen and his life, currently and frankly, sucks.

He, on the other hand, is eighteen, is going to college in a few months, and has a plan. His life is looking up. No matter what happens today, assuming no guns are involved and why would they, he will get over it. He will survive this day.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Mark saunters inside and heads to the bar; pulls from his backpack beer and bagels and cream cheese. He’s perturbed, but also hungry. He doesn’t comment except to say "thanks."

They putter around the kitchen - sucking in stomachs and pressing against cabinets to avoid contact, grimacing in apology when there's no help for it. They slice, toast, spread, and arrange plates. He takes a bite and ponders low expectations, meditates on getting answers.

“Outside?”

“Mmm-hmmm....”

There’s more fiddling, this time with the busted lawn chairs that are, after residing under the deck for another winter, that much closer to being ideas of chairs rather than pieces of furniture capable of weight bearing. They try them out here, there and everywhere before hauling them back to the house and planting them in front of the deck, in full view of the street. They settle down; they sip and chew. Like a couple of pensioners in an old folks’ home they warm their faces in the bright, clear light of the late morning sun. They don’t talk. 

He thinks back to last summer, the two of them sitting here, in these selfsame chairs, getting higher than high on those stupid cookies. Mark crawling between his legs, biting and licking him through his shorts until he was hazily begging, _I’m going to cream my pants if you don’t stop, please don’t stop_. Mark laughing at him, acting like his hand, his mouth weren’t doing anything with purpose. What was Jack going on about? Forever pretending he’s dropped by for no particular reason, because he _has free time_. Don’t get too excited, don’t get too possessive. He’ll be out the door any minute, there’s somewhere he needs to be.

After one and half beers and two bagels, his galloping heart slows to a canter, allows him to speak in his normal register.

“The other night…?”

Jack closes his eyes, clamps his mouth shut. He wants to focus on the words, assuming Mark has any to share, not read the tea leaves of his opaque gaze, count the beats that will metronomically pulse along his jaw, freight the total with substance. 

When Mark finally answers, he's muted. Subdued. He'd hazard a _shy_ except is Mark familiar with that word? He hasn't seen evidence of it.

“I’m sorry I surprised you. Would’ve stayed, but had to be at work early."

_Why why why why why._

“I’ve been thinking a lot recently about us and what went down. Last summer. I wanted, needed, to see you.”

_Why why why why why._

“Was that ok? For me to do that?”

He opens his eyes, turns and gawps at Mark, unable to hide his shock that Mark's interested in, asking for his opinion, rather than telling him what it should be. The blood is beating in Mark's temple; his cheeks are flushed, eyes twitchy and too bright. Mark's trying to unsee what he said, but he doesn't turn away. 

He does, though. His next words have to be the correct ones, and he can't locate them while Mark's staring at him. He's on the verge of crawling into his lap and kissing him, of reaching into his chest and ripping his heart out, laughing maniacally at his surprise. Neither, he can admit, would be especially productive responses. 

So he studies the pot holes in the driveway. They're making do for another year.

He has questions. He's not psychic.

“I don’t know. Why’d you do it?”

Mark half-smiles. Clenches his jaw - vaguely. Shrugs his shoulders - thoughtfully. He reaches for a second beer, cracks the top and sips with intention. Pauses to read the label, pauses to stare off into space. He's been asked an especially puzzling question and needs a moment to contemplate his answer.

That’s copacetic. He has no plans. He can sit here all day. He finishes the rest of his beer, then ruins the ‘stoic man of few but cutting words’ persona he’s trying to establish by burping then needing to take a piss. This requires him to lever himself out of the useless excuse for a chair by rocking back and forth a few times, finally establishing enough momentum to wobble up with an _oof_. He refuses to acknowledge Mark; strolls away from the house and pees with great conviction on an overgrown shrub that squats right off the driveway.

He zips up and stands there for a bit. Thinks about words like sanity and compromise and self-respect, secrecy and shame. Asks himself with studied indifference, similar to when he overhears kids at school discuss their weekend or vacation or summer plans, whether it's relevant to his life that he think about them at all. He examines Mark crouched small in his seat, knees holding up his chin, thumb lodged firmly in his mouth as he gnaws a nail that's already been bitten to the quick. He watches Mark watch himself doggedly grind his sneaker into the dirt, dashing the hopes of the determined tufts of grass that survived the winter, digging an uneven trench that will royally upset Mom. He seems less relaxed, less pleased, but he's still smiling with one side of his mouth. 

Jack has no idea what is so fucking funny. 

He returns to the house. The ground squelches and oozes under his sneakers, each step he takes stirs up the sweet funky smell of wet earth. It rained yesterday evening, a storm that skulked and menaced all day but didn't attack until he was riding the bus home. It unleashed gallons of water on him during his three-quarter mile walk, only to stop as soon as he climbed his front steps.

Mark continues to pretend he's here by himself. He reciprocates. Walks well past him and lowers himself onto the squashy dirt. He ignores Mark, ignores everything else that's annoying him. The ants trekking the Himalayas of his hands and neck. The cloud of midges gusting in and out his nose. The damp spots spreading like time-lapse mold across his shirt, jeans and socks. Instead, he focuses on observing what's above him. Listening to what's below and behind, all around him.

There's a hawk at the apex of the empty sky, hopefully pinwheeling. How much energy does it expend hunting one stringy rabbit, one spongy groundhog?

The birds are silent, have also eaten breakfast. But someone's mowing their lawn, someone's calling their dog, someone's driving their car. It's been daylight for hours, but the Morgenstern's rooster hasn't received the message.

Something is moving inside him: thick, slippery and restless. Thin and sharp and tearing. Dry, hard and grasping. It doesn't feel good. It's deeply satisfying. He wants to hold on to it. He wants to feed it.

He gazes at the sun hanging limpid in the fresh washed sky. A white orange haze fills his eyes. He closes them. The blue fog rolls in. He does it again. The third time he lingers, watches the colors bleed together, listens to the thrumming sun. His retinas sizzle: bugs under a magnifying glass, eggs on a summer sidewalk.

_Could this blind him?_

His eyes fall to half-mast, retreat and rest in the shallows. 

The chair protests, Mark mutters. Jack pretends he didn’t hear what was said. _Speak up_. _If you can’t say it out loud, go fuck yourself._

“I wanted to see if I still liked it.”

He’s been waiting since last summer to say this.

“You’ve always liked it, Mark. Even though I’m a _boy_.” He doesn't bother to open his eyes. He's practiced it enough that it comes off bored, sneery - better than he intended. His one liners are strong when he’s had time to prepare. He spreads his arms and legs into an X, brings them back in.

Mark growls. Under pressure, the chair admits he needs to do better than vague expressions, silent commands, and words that resemble nothing so much as a dog chasing its own tail. “I mean afterwards. How I’d feel afterwards. If it would be different than before. If I’d feel mostly bad or mostly good.”

He keeps pumping his arms and legs. “Did you work it out? During the last two fucking weeks?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Yes.”

It’s Mark’s turn to pee. 

He returns, lies down next to him. Jack stops moving, holds himself close.

“Fuck. It caught something.”

“What? Where?”

“In that tree over there. See it? In its claws there’s a…squirrel or bunny, something rodent like.”

“The other day I was in the woods and heard coyotes killing a deer. The noises it made. Fucking nuts.”

“Coywolves.”

“Coy-what?”

“Coyotes are too small to hunt deer. It was probably a coywolf - a coyote and wolf hybrid.”

“Like a Jackalope?”

“Sure. Except one is real and the other is a bedtime story.”

They lapse into awkward silence. He’s comfortable with it.

When he lies on the ground like this, studying how the treetops reach for but never quite scrape the sky, the purest green against the purest blue, he can almost sense the earth spinning beneath him at its true speed. No, faster. Fast enough that gravity loses its grip on him and he’s floating. Like a balloon. Escaping Shit Town, leaving it all behind. He thinks about the places he’d drift to. Expansive, open places rife with possibility. He’d follow the ribbons of road west, always west, until something caught his interest - the Snake River. Then he'd switch direction, travel along it. From Yellowstone to the Tetons, over Shoshone Falls, up the Blue Mountains and down Hells Canyon. He'd be a nomad, a voyager, an explorer. Alone, but at peace with it.  

Junior high science. As a balloon rises into the atmosphere, the surrounding air pressure decreases. In response, the helium inside the balloon expands and expands. Eventually the skin can't take it, and it bursts. He pictures his head exploding, and he’s back in his front yard.

Mark pokes him.

“What is that? Are you singing Tom Petty?”

“What? No!”

“Yes. Yes, you were! I was talking, but you couldn’t hear me because you were too busy crooning,” he drops into a nasal sing-song, “I’m _learn_ -ing to fly, a- _round_ the clouds.” 

Elated that he’s caught him doing something so uncouth, so not cool - overjoyed that he's been gifted a reason to run further away from the question asked of him so many minutes ago - Mark rolls in the grass, cackling, singing deliberately flat. “I’m _learn_ -ing to flllyyyy, but I _ain’t_ got wiiinnngssss”.

“Shut up! You know the lyrics too. I bet you like the song and are too stuck up to admit it.”

“And _what_ goes _uuuuup_ , must come _dooowwwnnnn_...”

His efforts to remain clinical and aloof – to maintain his dignity, to hold Mark accountable, to be in control of this conversation, why does he bother when Mark has a pathological need to avoid speaking words that have meaning - have been wrecked by Mom’s fondness for craptastic, earworm music and Mark’s fondness for giving him a hard time.

Fuck. Except it's more of an endless, silent scream. _Fffuuuuuuuuuuccccckkkkk._

"And _com_ -ing _dooowwwnnn_...is the haaardest _thing_." 

He sits up and slaps on his poker face, the one he’s been perfecting for months. He watches Mark snigger and snicker. Watches him take what was mildly funny and push, push, push until it’s not. Because he knows he can, because he’ll take it like the lovesick sad sack he is.

“Just fucking tell me what you said. No need to make a federal case of it.”

Deep inside the something is coiling, wrapping, squeezing - around his ribs, his heart, his lungs. His chest expands and contracts with coarse, shallow breaths. He’s been sprinting, someone’s choking him.

Mark abruptly stops singing and returns his incensed stare with detached interest. Like he's been complaining about something minor, something stupid. Mom's insisted he attend graduation; Mark never remembers that he hates scallion cream cheese; he failed to parallel park during his driving test. Which, when you take a moment to think about it, is a completely unnecessary - a sadistic - requirement. Who the fuck in upstate New York needs to be able to parallel park? Mark takes endless seconds to scratch his nose and stomach; to inspect his fingernails; to turn his head to the side so he can hock a giant loogie into the grass. When he finally speaks, it's slowly and matter of factly. 

“I said...It’s not all good, but it’s mostly not bad.” 

Still lying down, he crosses his feet under his knees, hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and frames his crotch with his fingers. Mark smiles, pacific on the surface but he sees what's churning just below. He knows he's being challenged, knows Mark's daring him to take offense.

“What the fuck does that mean?” 

He turns away, stares at nothing, and methodically counts to fifteen.

He turns back. Mark's still looking at him, the same way as before. So confident he'll get what he wants that he doesn't bother asking. So incapable of admitting how much he wants it that he'd rather go without. Jack forms loose fists. His fingers tic against his palms.

“What. The Fuck. Does That. Mean.”

“It means," said faster and louder, with obvious displeasure they haven't moved on from this subject, "I want to do it again. With you. I think, I know it’ll be easier this time. That I can handle it. Doing stuff. With you." 

“You’re not worried I’m going to hurt you? If it turns out you're wrong.”

“Of course not,” Mark snorts, lip curling, disdain and disbelief dripping from his pores. As if he’s been asked a ridiculous question, one not worth taking seriously. As if he hasn’t put Mark in the hospital, hasn't shot a gun at him in a codeine fueled tsunami of bitterness and fear. As if those feelings have vanished, haven't been simmering right below the surface for months. As if he’s _such a good boy_.

He lunges at Mark. He doesn’t want to kiss him.  

And they’re both rolling around in the dirt, grappling, scrabbling for purchase. Except for a stray grunt and snarl and "fucking asshole," in silence. Jack clutches and loses a bicep, a hank of hair, a t-shirt, the side of a neck, a calf and ankle, a scrap of denim. Mark fights dirty. He focuses on eyes, kidneys, ears and any body part connected by joints. He hooks his fingers inside his nose. Scrubs his face with clods of mud and stuffs them in his mouth. Mark knees him in _the balls_ , and who the fuck does that to another person who's not trying to rape them? When he stops writhing and bleating he's going to hamstring Mark, gut him, beat him till he's dead. Mark’s sitting on his back, knees troweling his armpits, forcing him to eat grass. He’s twisting his arm behind his head, wrenching it out of its socket. He's yanking his fingers toward the back of his hand, tearing his tendons. But Mark's forearm is near his face. If he stretches he can reach it and _bite down until he tastes blood._       

With a _screech_ Mark falls off him. He hoists himself to all fours and tackles him. Wriggles and flails - slaps Mark's hands off him and is liberal with his knees - until he's in position: sitting squarely on Mark's chest. When Mark brings his hands up to shove him away, he’s ready, grabs them and wrenches them over his head and pins them to the ground. Mark is outraged and stunned and scared. He twists and bucks, kicks and squirms. He promises a slow and painful death when he gets free, but it only makes him bear his weight down harder. His blood is singing, he’s drunk he’s high and he didn’t know he had the strength in him. Each time Mark tries to wrest his arms free he pulls them too straight, squeezes his wrists and grinds them into the mud. He wants to leave bruises, he hopes he leaves bruises.

Without warning, all the fight leaves Mark. Hair over his eyes, arms and legs still, he sags into the churned up earth. His once pristine t-shirt is ripped and soiled. Veins of blood, mud and grass criss-cross his face. Jack doesn't need to see his eyes to know they're sullen and blank. Gone. He runs out of his house, the truck pulls away and Mark looks past him, he's a stranger. He tries to console Mark, he pushes him away and looks past him, Jack is the cause of all Mark's problems.

But he doesn’t try to break free. He’s motionless and waiting. He's surrendered. The barbed wire, the snakes, the fists unhook, slither away, release. Jack can breathe, and everything hurts a little less.   

He should drill down into each word from Mark's last outburst. Ask ten more why questions. Force him to define what he means when he says _easier, better, handle, this, time, think, it_ , _do_. _Stuff_. Should establish that Mark is rational, stable enough to manage Tom. Manage him. Should point out that he continues to leave himself multiple exits, multiple ways he can back out while continuing to claim _I’m not a liar._

He should clarify that what Mark wants is more of the same. To be together, but never use the word. If they don’t put a name to it, it doesn’t exist. Plausible deniability. 

Eighteen months ago he was asleep. Then Tom, from the very beginning hearty and fake, oily and off said _Mark! C’mon out._ And this kid - smaller than him, clothed all in black and a wary cat face - slipped out of the truck and regarded him skeptically through a chunk of hair he'd slicked in front of his eye. He examined him hostilely from across the dinner table. Over the top of his menu, through his glass of water, while he sawed away at his pork chop. He reconsidered, if only to get away from his dad. He gave him a chance, got him high. Woke him up. And that was that.

He releases Mark's wrists. Puts his hands in his hair, kisses the spot below his ear. Rests his cheekbone in the hollow between his collarbone and his neck. Mark wraps his arms and legs around him. Sighs with gratitude, with relief.   

 


	10. a frail slippery house, a precise clumsy prison

June, July and it’s August again. Feathery skeins of morning clouds incinerated by nine a.m. pulpy sunshine. Liquid dog shit and peevish locals. Wailing kids and ice cream scoop sidewalk plops. Murky, viscid air that leaves all it touches – clean laundry, dirty towels, his nuts, newly painted walls – forever damp.

The two positives to being stuck in Shit Town through the dog days: an early exit from work, and people with the inclination and free time to drive thirty minutes to the nearest swimming hole. The latest he has to stay on site is two o’clock. Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t get paid to watch paint dry.

Most days he hasn’t developed a particular plan, doesn’t have a specific destination in mind. After work he ambles here, shuffles there. He smokes, hangs out with these guys or those guys. If he’s feeling flippant and spontaneous, or dangerous and self-destructive, he heads home and leaves evidence - crusty dishes, an unflushed toilet, a raided refrigerator - he’s not dead. _Hi, Dad_. _Sorry to have missed you._

Not every day, but more than days than not, his feet take him to Jack’s.

They’ve been making up for lost time, making out like freshmen: jerking each other off; jerking off while the other watches (surprisingly satisfying); swapping blow jobs; humping - dry, not so dry. And let’s not forget kissing. He never gets bored of being kissed by Jack.

He likes how, when they kiss, Jack uses his hands. How he rubs his thin, soft palms against his calloused, cracked ones until his knees loosen, his back softens and the acid in his stomach turns to molasses. How, when they kiss, with one hand Jack threads his fingers through his hair, holds the back of his head, and with the other he scratches up and down his spine. How Jack's hands ghost continuously, armpit to ass, along his sides. How they twist his nipples, grip his thighs. Pull him close.  

Jack kisses and kisses him until he’s slack and tingling, dizzy and and whimpering, mewling and breathless. Until he’s made up entirely of miniature shooting stars or friendly, buzzy bees. Until there’s not a single thought in his head. Once, his head was so empty that while they were kissing, Jack on top of him like a blanket, hip bones pulsing against his, he came. It was so empty he proceeded to scoop the spunk off him, wrap his sticky slick hand around Jack’s dick, and whisper _things_ in his ear while he worked him, things he only thinks about when he stops thinking.

Afterwards – windows open, fan uselessly gyrating – Jack spoons him, dick wedged soft (then hard, then soft, then hard) in his crack, and they sleep in a slippery heap. In the morning, if Karen’s around she makes them breakfast. She and Jack sit close together at the kitchen table, exchanging nebulous chit-chat, a radio whose volume is loud enough that he feels safe, reassured he's not alone, but soft enough that if he doesn't pay attention he can't hear the exact words. His mind's free to ride its own currents. He builds ketchup covered scrambled egg sandwiches, sucks bacon grease off his fingers, slumps in his chair and lets it all wash over him.

He doesn't listen to them but, from the corners of his eyes, beneath his semi-closed lids, he watches them. Observes how they continue to be considerate and patient, kind to each other. Even when they don’t want to be. Even when they shouldn’t be.

Once or twice, Karen pressed on him a brown paper bag of leftovers, to take to work. He didn't say no.

All of it leaves him temporarily replete, temporarily remorseful. Consistently thinking about the next time, consistently reminding himself not to get used to it.  

Tonight is no exception. They’re messing around at Jack’s house, in Jack’s room. Karen’s around. Or maybe she isn’t. He’s not certain, and it doesn’t matter. Her only comment the first time he stopped by and knocked on the front door like a civilized human being: _Mark, it’s so nice to see you again. Jack’s in his room_. As he strolled inside and made his way down the hall she looked simultaneously vague and knowing, her default expression when she's dealing with the two of them.

When she’s home she clacks and clatters pots and pans before she moves outside, well away from Jack’s window, to drink beer, smoke menthols and read the romance novels Jack picks up for her at the perpetual library sale of books too battered and moldy to keep on the shelves.

(Twenty-five cents a pop, yet he insists on reading the back covers. He wants to _be sure to get her_ _ones she’ll like_.)

If it’s raining or the mosquitoes are out in full force Karen stays inside, drinks whiskey, plays Solitaire and listens to Linda Ronstadt or Credence. Loudly. She’s considerate that way.

She never mentions Dad.

Jack, because he’s broke, nostalgic, delusional or all three, has kept his bunk bed. They use the top bunk to store his stuff: music, two guitars and an amp; _How to Get Your GED_ \- stolen from the library in January, when he was stalking Jack; a couple of changes of clothes and a handful of drugstore essentials. He’s trying, these days, to be more conscientious about how he _presents_ at work.

He leans forward; rests his hands against the wall and closes his eyes. Focuses. They’re both scrawny and on the short side. Nevertheless he has to be careful, remember not to get carried away, rise up and crack his head on the frame above. Or collapse on Jack’s face.    

Because he’s working with barely a three-foot clearance while straddling Jack’s neck and shoulders, while his dick is in Jack’s mouth. He’s trying to let Jack control the pace, trying not to be a maniac and choke him. Not having much luck because the bunk bed grabs on to, won’t let go of, the heady smell of libido and sweat and intertwined bodies until he feels like he’s in his very own squeaky creaky sex cave, thrusting wetly into Jack’s mouth and rocking back onto his fingers. Each time a little faster, a little harder.

He’s well past the point where he’s worried how this looks, what this makes him; that oily inner voice flattened – silenced, suffocated - by sensation. By his swimming head and coursing blood, his thudding heart and rasping breath. By _JackJackJackJackJack_.

Who wipes his hands and mouth on Mark’s shirt. Who gives him his cat that ate the canary smile; gazes at him with his penetrating owl eyes. Who can see into the deepest, darkest parts of him, but it’s nothing to be scared of because everything he sees is good and pure and true.

He curls into Jack, snugs his nose under his arm and breathes him in. He doesn’t tickle him and get ejected from bed. Instead, he runs his fingers along the velvety underside of Jack’s dick and thinks about _reciprocity_.

“What do you want, Jack?”

Mark is generous, unafraid.

Jack is straight-faced, victorious.

“I want to _fuck you_.”

Heat, prickly and scarlet, rockets from his chest to his scalp. His stomach flutters, his ankles shiver. Like a bashful virgin - which come to think of it in this instance he is - he clasps his hands together. To stop himself from covering his face (his ass) with them. And giggling. 

He’s embarrassed, but there’s no reason to be. Didn’t he admit to himself, a few days ago in fact, they were barreling headlong towards this? Perhaps he expected Jack to put it differently, say _go all the way_ or _do it_ , leaving ambiguous who did what to who. Perhaps he hoped Jack would wait longer before bringing it up. Overly optimistic on his part. Jack’s been fantasizing about this for more than a year. In his mind, he’s given it more than enough time.

Mark’s startled into directness; shocked – _tricked_ \- into honesty. 

“Me on the receiving end?”

“Yes.”

“You know I’m not gay.”

“I’ve never thought you were.”

“I’ve been with girls. Recently.”

“How could I forget. You told me all about it. For months.”

“We’re not dating.”

“We don’t need to be.”

“My dad will kill me if he finds out. He’ll kill both of us.”

“He’s not going to find out. Unless you tell him.”

“I haven’t stopped liking girls.”

“I know.”

“At some point I might go back to girls.”

“I know.”

Jack looks at Mark. Mark looks at Jack. 

“What are you thinking?”

“I dunno. I need some time.”

“Ok.”

********

Here’s how he uses his time. On Friday after work, rather than roundaboutly making his way to Jack’s, he beelines straight to Corinne’s. She’s out of town. ("A girl friend or a girlfriend," he asks, and she laughs. "I'll let you know when I figure it out. You don't have a monopoly on being confused." He ignores her fishing.) She knows how Dad is; told him he can crash at her place, including when she’s not around, if he _gets in real trouble, has a serious problem_. To demonstrate she wasn’t blowing smoke up his ass, she gave him a spare key and a friendly warning. "Don't make me regret this, Mark, or I will find you, wherever you are, and beat your skinny behind." 

She definitely could.

Needing a place to squirrel himself away while he avoids thinking about whether to have sex with Jack is not what she had in mind when she made her offer, but he decides this qualifies as serious and problematic - a crisis in the making. A crisis of his own making if he reacts as he’s wont to: waspishly, fearfully, with a bull’s-eye spray painted on his chest.  

He’s in one of his moods. His sinews are wound too tight. He's wearing someone else's skin. Doesn't want to talk to anyone. Wants to talk to someone, anyone, so he can fight with them. He repeatedly trips over his own feet because it’s too much effort to pick them up. If he had any sense whatsoever he’d get into Corinne’s bed, snuggle her oversized stuffed panda and sleep through Saturday.

No one has ever accused him of being sensible. He gathers supplies and heads to her black and silver, Goth-lite living room. Arranges them on the couch and coffee table within arms reach. He turns on the TV, takes some Ritalin, smokes a joint.

The hours pass. It grows light then dark again. He grazes on cheese covered popcorn, salt and vinegar chips, cookie dough and Japanese snack mix, washing it all down with root beer and beer beer. He lies around in his underwear and remembers why he never watches TV on the weekends: it is fucking dreadful. He drops empty bottles and half empty snack bags on the floor. When he's on the verge of wetting himself he stumbles to the bathroom and pisses, sucks water down from the sink. When he feels like he might be coming down, he takes a hit.

He falls asleep for a couple of hours. Wakes up and gobbles a pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk. He pictures a skinny blonde, then three skinny blondes with liquid tongues, plush tits and tight asses. When he’s finished, he tosses his dirty undershirt on the floor.

5:30 Sunday morning, and he's become one with the couch. The TV is blaring, his hand is down his underwear (it’s soothing to put it there), and there's a tub of peanut butter, spoon stuck inside, balanced on his stomach. His tongue has cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He should see if Corinne has some milk.

They’re in one of the houses she cleans. He’s staying out of her way, periodically checking in to make sure she’s moving. She gets...focused. Enters extended, meditative states, entranced by simple tasks like making a bed, dusting a ceiling fan, polishing the stove. It leads to happy clients. And not enough jobs. He wasn’t aware of this in the moment, of course, he was only a little kid; but he’s been working for more than a year, can see what her problem is. Was. Well, one of her problems. Some of the others, he noticed at the time. But that was just...Mom.

He wanders through an endless gallery of frothy, frilly rooms, every table and shelf bountiful, overflowing with baroquely fragile  _stuff_. It will take her a week, a month to finish. He rummages through closets, cupboards and bureaus the size of his bedroom. Rubs his face along freshly pressed cotton shirts that crackle under his cheek; pets fur collars; tries on shoes and sunglasses. He ties a scarf around his face and squeezes into a wooden chest that he props open a hair. He has to remain hidden, but vigilant. He’s Snake Eyes on a mission, waiting for his moment, ready to pounce.     

He hears footsteps. It’s Zartan! It’s Storm Shadow! It’s Destro! He leaps from the chest, knife in his left hand, sword in his right.

_“Mom?”_

She’s with a social worker. He recognizes she’s one because he’s dreaming, and in dreams you know who everyone is, including strangers, without having to be told.

Mom smiles at him abstractedly, mechanically, like a grown-up, a real one, was instructing her to.  _I know you._ _Remind me how we met? Am I supposed to love you? Is that what you want?_  

The social worker, Jane, is talking and talking and talking. Explaining, justifying, soothing. Unsuccessfully. He’s blubbering away. He knows where he’s headed; he knows what’s to come. 

He'd like to wake up.

He puts his arms around Mom and she lets him. He can feel her, holding her breath, counting the seconds until he releases her and she's  _free_.

He sits in the passenger seat of Jane’s car and they drive to Baskin Robbins. Jane buys him a banana split with hot fudge sauce and explains that yes absolutely, no doubt about it, Dad is a fucking dickweed. However, and he should never forget this, there are many worse parents. Mark could be a little kid whose mom and her boyfriend burnt him with their cigarettes and snapped his fingers like kindling because he wouldn’t stop whinging he was hungry. Whose parents chained him to the bed to die of thirst while they wandered off to get high and didn't bother to come home for four days. Who molested him or set their dogs on him or drowned him in the toilet or all of the above. Whose dad made him run for miles and miles because he didn’t make his bed properly, made him run until his little kid heart gave out and he dropped dead in the middle of the road.  He nods his head in agreement, though he isn’t sure he does. Agree. Sure, he knows people like this exist. He’s heard gossip, stories on the radio, the TV. But it’s like famine and war. Far away, happening to someone else. And Dad – raging and bellowing, howling at the moon – is right here.

He is right here, outside, face pressed to the plate glass window; bloated face patchy with unrepressed fury, sunken, raisiny eyes burning off Mark’s eyebrows. He’s shouting, but the glass is too thick for the words to penetrate. It doesn’t matter. He’s heard it all before. 

He'd really like to wake up.

“Are you positive there isn’t someone else I can live with besides Dad? He hates me. He hates Jack. Doesn’t like what we do together, doesn’t want us to be together. It's his fault I'm like this.”

She simpers and laughs, a little girl, Tinker Bell laugh that doesn’t match her emphatic freckles and sensible, polyester pantsuit. Her masses of curly, carroty-red hair and muscular hands; the pallid blue eyes that swim in a lantern jawed, square face.

“Mark, families are for kids. You’re almost eighteen, almost an adult. You're ready to be on your own.” She’s moved to the bench on his side of the table. Is sitting close, too close. To demonstrate how grown up he is, she runs a long finger down his neck, unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt. ( _Why is he wearing a button down shirt?_ ) She points at the window. “Look, not even your dad wants you anymore.”

She’s right. He’s gone.

When he turns back to Jane he sees she's crept closer. Her leg is pressed against his and - squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing - one hand is on his knee. She’s staring at him hungrily. He’s freshly baked dinner rolls, yeasty and steaming, split down the middle with butter slathered on both sides. She's staring at him impatiently. He's missing the crux of the conversation. With one hand she cups his cheek. “You know, don’t you," she says, choosing her words with care. With the other she pinches higher up his leg, to keep him on point. Because he’s just that thick, and she doesn't want to repeat herself. "Once you leave him you'll no longer be able to blame him for the mess you’ve made of your life.”

Jane kisses him. He returns the kiss. Eagerly. He's getting off on it. And that is too fucking much. He is _done_ with this dream. He wakes up, clammy and heaving. The jar of peanut butter has rolled under the coffee table. He’s been asleep, sitting in the same position, neck at a seventy-degree angle for - he checks his watch, well aware that he shouldn't try to move his head yet - four and a half hours.

He unkinks as best he can and lies down, nose nestled between his knees. He experiments. Will sucking his thumb make him feel better? No.  

He'd better clean up before Corinne gets home, blows a gasket and takes away his key. He scans the coffee table, pats the couch cushions, peeks under the sofa.

Where did he put that joint? 

********

Mark talks to Jack.

What he thinks: That he loves Jack, loves everything about him. His crooked teeth, wobbly chin, silky hair and nose that’s probably too big for his face. His childish certainty and terrible, awkward sense of humor. His dreaminess, unthinking optimism and endless desire. The anger and jealousy that he tries, but always fails, to hide. His lack of shame and nervous love.

What he says: “I’ve thought about it and…ok.”

What he thinks: That he’s a hypocrite, a liar and the worst kind of coward. That he’d like to be different, but doesn’t know how. That he's unsure he's capable of change; that he's certain he's too needy - lonely, hungry, fearful - to stay away.

What he says: “But everything else will stay the same. I can't promise you anything more.”  

Jack doesn’t blink. He doesn’t kick him in the teeth, storm off or say _I need some time_ , then run home to change the lock on his front door. He shrugs.

“I'm fine with that.” As if Jack knew what he would say and practiced his response ahead of time. “Except for Sarah.” Followed by another shrug. “She already knows. You can stop pretending around her. If you want.”

Mark assumes they’ll do it right then and there and that would be that. Like the first time they fucked around in their attic space: fast, intense and _done_. Like the first time Mark had sex, a girl in his lap who knew what she was doing, what she wanted, pants hastily pushed down, dress hiked up, and he’d lost his cherry.

He’s mistaken. Jack wants to do this _right_. He’s done research. Jack now believes everything can be researched. He hasn’t started school, but he’s already behaving like a nurse. Jack acquires pamphlets and asks him to read them (he intends to, then loses them). After Mark told him he didn't need to, because he has some, he buys what he refers to as _fresh condoms_. Jack makes him get tested; tells him he’ll get tested if it would make him more comfortable.

“I don’t know how careful you’ve been. Or will be.”

He starts to protest. It’s overkill. He’s not a complete idiot, has tried to be safe. He hasn’t messed around with anyone else since he and Jack started their thing again. Isn’t planning to mess around with anyone else. Jack examines him for a minute – steady, unperturbed - before his eyes turn to stones. _Don’t lie to me, or we are done_. He swallows his glib response.

“This is your show anyway.”

It turns out, surprise surprise, how-to manuals aren’t equivalent to the real thing. They try, and it’s unwieldy, uncomfortable; requires too much thinking, _cleaning_ , prepping and maneuvering. Even when he's high he can’t fully relax, can’t stop _clenching_ , unable to forget that dicks are not meant to go in butts. He’s guilt ridden. He made a promise he can’t keep, and he doesn’t want to do that, at least not to Jack. He’s irritated. He doesn’t have the energy, the inclination to negotiate what is coming perilously close to a relationship discussion.

He is firm. “You can’t research this." He sets limits. "Let’s stop trying - and talking about it.”

Jack is unconcerned. “No problem." He’s a Buddhist. "Whatever happens, happens.”

It’s the first time he’s heard Jack say this. He’s pleased.

The thirtieth time he hears it, two seconds before Jack opens his mouth he realizes what he’s going to say, so he mouths along with him, rolling his eyes.

The hundredth time he hears it he contemplates, not for the first time, punching Jack in the throat, but settles for a well-placed shove. 

The two hundredth time he hears it, the utter emptiness and incoherence that lies at the heart of this statement drives him temporarily insane.

********

September, October, November, December, January. It’s cold and snowy; cold and dark; cold and February. Again.

After his birthday, after the benefits on him ran out, he packed a duffel and a milk crate, left a note with no forwarding address on the kitchen table and banged down the stairs for the last time. He floated - within town, outside it too. Spent a few weeks on a couch, a few days on a floor. Filled in for a roommate who’d been kicked out, for a roommate who left without warning, without leaving next month's rent. 

Here and there, so he didn't get forget how, he slept rough. Most nights he was in-between, he stayed at Jack’s. Endlessly informing him it wasn’t permanent, relentlessly reminding himself of the same.

When he landed, it was here: a cheap, extremely cheap, basement apartment. His landlord is a shit stain, his roommate a loser, but that’s to be expected. He’s got cockroaches and spiders; a hot plate, a mini fridge and a space heater; buckets to catch the leaks and a wide variety of mouse traps. It’s all preferable to before.

Where is his dad? He doesn’t know, doesn’t give a shit. He hopes he catches on fire and his scorched corpse rots in hell.

His life is manageable. He's handling it. Working and paying his bills, if sometimes on the late side. Feeding himself and washing his clothes, when he remembers (when he has the cash). Seeing Jack away from his house, at a distance, because they're friends; seeing Jack at his house, close enough to count his eyelashes, to learn what he ate for dinner. Kissing the occasional girl, to reassure himself he could have one if he wanted. Hanging out with the guys and, if they’re talking about girls, joining in, to keep up appearances. 

He's happy, at peace. 

No. That's a lie. 

The truth: he's not miserable, he's less tired. More days than not he wakes up and it's...acceptable. He gets through his day without damaging something. Without damaging himself. One day, possibly, he'll be capable of more than this. 

The truth: he looks in the mirror, searching his face for. He can't describe it with words, but he's sure he'll recognize it when it's there. A sign that he's not just different, but better. 

He's still looking. He's getting impatient.

Not infrequently, when he's showering or brushing his teeth; when he's wrangling drop cloths, red rosin paper, plastic tarp and blue tape; when he’s listening to music or heating up a can of soup or counting his payday cash; when he's walking or biking, riding the bus or sitting in a car, he wonders. 

Is this his life now? Is this who he’s supposed to be?

********

He cuts across front yards. The morning grass crunches under his boots. His breath plumes and nose leaks. But afternoons are softer - gossamer. The evening sun lingers, reluctant to say good-night. It smells fresher. Hopeful.

Mark is buoyant. With each layer of clothes he sheds he's that much closer to being weightless. He dreams of places he’s never been. He sees a car on the street with a sign taped to the passenger side glass: FOR SALE: $500. There's a phone number. He doesn’t have that much cash, but he jots the information on his palm. Maybe he can work something out.

One night they’re messing around: escalating, escalating. Jack wants him naked, he strips down. Jack says the desk lamp should stay on, he says “sure.” Jack informs him he wants to “try something out,” hints he wants him on hands and knees on his rug, he doesn’t question. Jack spreads him apart, kisses _his asshole_ , uses his tongue to _explore_ , to softly, steadily lick over and around, up and down. Inside snd out. Mark thinks _I knew Jack was kinky as fuck, but what the hell is this?_ Mark thinks _stop, don't stop, stop, don't stop._

He squirms and yelps. "Wait what stop!"

Jack pulls away. He doesn’t move. Jack sits on his haunches, continues to not touch him. He looks over his shoulder, reaches for his dick.

“What do you want, Mark?”

“OkIchangedmymindthatworksforme.”  

He’s splayed on the fuzzy, tomato rug; legs spread, knees up. Unable to think, to move, because all the blood is _there_ ; every neuron and nerve is conducting impulses, sending information _there_. He asks Jack to touch his dick. He commands him to touch his dick: jack him off, suck him off. Something, anything.

“Can you wait?” He chews his knuckles, bites his thumb, tears tufts out of the rug, but concedes “yes.” Jack spreads lube on his fingers and slips them in. First one, then more. He curls and twists and spreads them, _just like that what is that where did he learn to do that_. It’s too much too much he's almost there it's not enough. He needs...more.

He makes his way to knees and forearms, face in the rug, ass in the air. "Right now. Before I change my mind." Jack doesn’t need to be told twice. He wrestles on a condom, slaps even more lube on and eases in.

Through years of practice he’s established a high tolerance for pain, but this is different. It’s uncomfortable in a way he’s not at all accustomed to. He squeaks, croaks. They can’t be doing this right.

He reaches behind him. “Stop.” 

Better. This is better.

“Move. Slowly.”

When it’s _done_ , Jack carefully pulls out and takes off the condom; carefully rests his cheek on his back and wraps his arms around him; carefully lays him on the rug.

Jack bestows on him a smile, blissed out with a generous dollop of disbelief. "You ok?"

He returns it. "Mmm-hmmm. You?"

"I'm good."

Jack showers his cheeks and shoulders, chest and stomach with kisses, then blows him like glass.

As Jack sleeps, hand nested in his palm, warm breath on his ear, Mark thinks about the next time. Reminds himself not to get used to this.

 


	11. Wide Open

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi-spoilery CW at the end.

Sex. They try, repeatedly. They fail, repeatedly. It’s pretty embarrassing. He chooses not to think about it. He gave up on it ever happening. And then it did.

It was and is. It will continue to be - assuming god isn’t a vengeful, raging asshole wasting his time raining down hellfire on useless teenage boys when he should be focused on necessary activities like ending war, making sure babies don’t go hungry and stopping the good musicians from killing themselves, accidentally or on purpose - the best thing in the entire world. Silent, clumsy and serious; loud, uninhibited and urgent. Fast. Not quite so fast. Confusing. Occasionally frustrating. (Sarah insists that two dicks together is a no brainer. He knows better.) They’re figuring out what feels good, and if it does feel good, how to repeat the experience. They’re figuring out what he likes versus what Mark likes and how to reconcile the two.  All without too much discussion as that gets Mark thinking, and Jack’s learned that the less he thinks, the better their orgasms are.  

With practice, they’re starting to get the hang of it.

“You ready?”

Since the first time Mark asked it’s been a question in no need of an answer. Always and forever: _Yes. Yes. What took you so long. Yes_.

He’s leaning against the ladder to the top bunk; hollow, metal rungs are digging into the small of his back, under his shoulder blades, against his skull. He can't feel them while Mark’s on his knees: nibbling down his happy trail; kissing along the channel where his leg meets his stomach; biting the top, then the inside of his thigh until his leg spasms and he groans. (Mark knows Jack likes it when he hurts him, just a little.) He digs his fingers into Mark’s shoulders in time with the echo in his head _More more more more more_.

Mark pauses and looks up at him with bruised, curious eyes; licks his lips and gives him the shadow of a smile: waiting for a reaction. (Jack knows Mark likes it when he begs.) He doesn't stop himself from thrusting, and his dick brushes the corner of Mark’s mouth; from touching his jaw and redirecting his focus. With the tip of his tongue Mark traces the vein that runs the length of him. His eyelashes flutter, his hands bring him closer as he gently blows on his head, as he gives it an open-mouthed, wet kiss and breathes “mmmm….”

He’s about to warn Mark that unless he wants him to come all over his face (which gross, no) he’d better hurry up when Mark abruptly changes direction. Bounces him onto the sheets, rucks up his knees and hands him the lube.

“It’s your turn.”

Jack opens himself up as Mark sits cross legged at the end of the bed, wordless and focused. Watching.

No, he cannot comprehend why Mark - repressed in more ways than he can count on two hands, still prey to the thousand yard, post-orgasm, _what have I done_ stare - gets off on this. Can't recall when and how he articulated to him that of all the sexual permutations they could be engaged in, this is what he wants. As with everything related to Mark, he's highly motivated and has quickly learned how to make it work for him.

When he’s ready, way past ready, he looks at Mark, but all he sees are eyes that tell him _keep going_ and a hand that’s on his own dick.

“You could bring that hand – the rest of you - closer.”

“Why? The view’s great from here.”

He drops his head on the pillows. Relaxes his legs until they’re butterflied in front of him, knees resting on the mattress. He tilts his hips up and slides a couple of fingers in as far as he can. With his free hand he jerks himself; he sighs, stuttery and raspy, like it’s going to be over any minute.

That works. Mark’s on top of him in an instant, everywhere at once: mouthing his Adam’s apple, jostling his hands away and replacing them with his own, knocking against his asshole, patting around the sheets for the lube.

Mark has barely wiped himself down when he begins a familiar tirade. "I have to be at work at 7:30 tomorrow." He sits up and scans the floor for his clothes. Locates them, only to lie down with an irritated grunt and mutter darkly about how tired he's been recently, what a nightmare this particular job is. He hates his boss; he takes advantage of him, talks down to him, never listens, makes everything worse and he can't handle it anymore. His expression grows thunderous.

"Where do you have to be?"

"I dunno. Not that far from here, I guess."

"So you should stay."

Ten minutes later Mark's asleep on his stomach, hands nestled in his crotch, butt in the air. Temporarily at peace. He stays in bed and catches up on his reading assignments; pausing more than once to run a finger along Mark's forehead, down his cheek and across his lips; to brush the hair off the back of his neck and kiss it, elicit a smile.

 _This was a good day,_ he thinks. _Nothing special happened, but it was still good._ He drops the book on the floor and turns off the light.

******** 

It’s Tuesday. It’s May. It’s snowing. It’s May, what sticks will be gone by morning. But he has a hole in his left boot, no jacket and has spent most of his day behind plastic sheeting, prepping the walls of a giant closet.

He walks through the front door and hangs a right - unconcerned with petty details like wiping his feet; conscientious about tracking mud across the rug and kicking over empties that have been repurposed as ashtrays.

He walks into his room and lifts his mattress off the floor, where he stores his cash. The envelope is there. The envelope is empty.

He walks to the far wall and picks up the tin sitting on a board straddling two milk crates, where he keeps his weed and pills. The tin is empty.

The last time he was here was Friday. When he got paid. 

He flops on his mattress, inspects the new water stain on his bedroom ceiling, and waits.

Boots knock against siding, the screen door squeals. He rockets out of the bedroom, trips over a corner of the rug and skids in a pool of melted snow, but is ready and waiting when the front door opens. He corners Chester (not his name, but it suits him much better than _Timothy_ ) between the front door and the hall closet.

“Where is my shit?”

“Huh?”

“Where is my fucking money? Where are my fucking drugs? You fucking dirtbag piece of shit.” Flecks of spit land on the bridge of Chester’s blackhead peppered nose, the crepey, grey-green skin pleated under his eye, and he is glad.

“I dunno, man. Why are you fucking blaming me? It could have been anyone.”

Turns out, over the weekend, while he was at Jack’s, Chester’s brother and Chester’s brother’s girlfriend came up from Scranton. Chester’s brother knows some people in the area and invited them over. Chester’s brother and his brother’s girlfriend slept in his room. In his bed. 

“Why don’t you fucking rent my fucking room by the fucking hour while you’re at it!”

“It’s not a bad idea. It’s not like you’re ever around. Why do you bother paying for a place you’re never in? Where the hell do you go, anyway?" Chester gives him a look he hasn't seen before, like he's trying to rub two brain cells together and spark a thought. "You still hanging around all the time with that friend of yours? What's his name, James?" He snaps his fingers. "No, that's not it. Gimme a second to remember...Ah, that's right." He leers with intent. "It's Jack. You two are pretty _good friends_ , yeah?"

“If I’m not here, it’s because you’re a disgusting pig, and I‘d rather live in a hole in the fucking ground than here, where I’m forced to look at your pink, piggy face.”

Chester shrugs, unfazed. People have been saying this to him his entire life.

“You’re so fucking smart, Mark, I’m surprised you haven’t figured this out. If you don’t want anyone in your room, _you should remember to lock it_.”

There’s nothing left to do but take a swing at him. Hands on each others’ shoulders, they haphazardly, half-heartedly grapple, sway left and right, back and forth. In the process, they tear a hole in the screen door and break the doorknob on the closet.

********

He locks his door and thumbs a ride to Jack’s. He carries with him all the cash that remains after he picks up his replacement weed. Ten bucks.

Karen’s at work. Jack’s studying by the kitchen, back to the door, hair shrouding his face, tinny bass and drums leaking out the sides of his headphones. Mark removes his boots and pads softly, on the balls of his feet, towards him. When he can stick out his tongue and taste hair, he stops. He peers over Jack's shoulder, inspects the books and notebooks, neon highlighters and stubby pencils scattered across the brown, fissured table. Observes how, at the beginning of each paragraph, Jack maps his progress with a ballpoint dot. _Here I am._

He waits and waits to be noticed, then gives in to the temptation to pinch Jack's earlobe, to treat himself to a frantic yelp and the sight of Jack levitating six inches off his chair.

His face receives a brief but penetrating once over as Jack tries not to frown. As he tries not to worry.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Chester. Me. It was stupid.”

He gives Jack the lowlights, tells him that for the foreseeable future he’ll need to leave his valuables, such as they are, with him.

Jack tucks his hair behind his ear with sweet tempered fingers; brushes forbearing knuckles across his cheek; presses softhearted kisses along the parallel scratches that run from his left ear to the bottom of his chin. Because Chester fights like a girl.

“That sucks.”

“No problem.”

Jack saying _no problem_ \- even though he’s thinking _you fucking idiot what is wrong with you_ – doesn't make him glad. It weighs him down. He is sodden and crumpled. Dirty and spent. There’s a wadded up, gasoline soaked rag sitting in his gut.

What would it take for Jack to say _no more_ and mean it?

"You busy? I could head back."

"No. Stay. I've got a couple of things to finish up. But I'll be done soon."

What would he have to do before Jack gave up on him?

"What're you listening to?"

"Nothing you'd like. Want something to eat?"

He recollects lunch, a gas station turkey sandwich. "Nah, I'm not hungry..."

"Suit yourself. But there's beer, and a leftover, cheesy ricey thing that's pretty tasty." Jack grins and pats his stomach. "Perfect for when you have the munchies." 

"You're in a good mood."

"Am I? Yeah, I guess I am. Probably 'cause you're here to distract me."

Jack rolls his neck in lazy circles - first one way, then the other. "Oof. I've been sitting for fucking hours. What made me think I could learn half a semester's worth of pharmacology in a day?" He lifts his arms overhead and bows into a backbend, twitches his hips from side to side. Jack's t-shirt rides up, and he glimpses a scrub of brown hair, a stretch of blue elastic. He can't see it, but he can picture it: muscle and skin wrapped thin and tight around jutting hip bones, hip bones that form two points of a triangle, the third of which is...

A sharp burble of want, crystalline and bracing, rises up and splashes through him. Followed by another, but this one is warmer, humid and cloudy. Mixed with something much less friendly.

Before he can talk himself out of it - and, yes, once a season he talks himself out of acting pointless and self-destructive, but he's saving it for a better day - he moves closer and palms Jack through his jeans. Presses the heel of his hand into his dick and, with cupped fingers, holds his balls. Jack tenses and turtle-like, draws his neck back: confused, cautious, curious. His fingers flutter between them, unwilling to make contact. Mark smiles with his mouth and orders the rest of him to follow along. Runs his thumb along the zipper of Jack's jeans, slips a hand under his shirt and teases the spot just above his waistband. 

Jack relaxes. Eyes hazy, dick interested, he steps into his hand; touches him; slants forward and nibbles his jaw.

"Do you want to...?"

He steers Jack sideways and backwards, until the bony wings of his shoulder-blades bump solidly against the fridge. He scissors his legs around Jack's thigh and rides it, paws at the buttons on his shirt. He leans in and kisses him: slobbery and toothy, too much tongue. Jack doesn't object. Eyes closed, humming with satisfaction, he snakes his arms around his neck and lets him in.

Mark licks his ear, whispers into it. "I want to fuck you so bad. Right here. Over the table, on the floor. Right now. Want to feel you all around me, so fucking tight, nothing between us. Hear you ask me - beg me - for more." Jack, eyes closed, sighs "yes yes yes." Because he's Jack, and he doesn't know better, even when he should; because he's never said that to him before.

He maneuvers Jack out of his shirt; scratches his ribs and twists his nipples, listens to his hisses and rumbles of pleasure. He can feel, along his leg, the hard ridge of Jack's dick. He lines it up with his and grinds against it - fast, rough. Kisses him greedily, ravenously, like he's drowning or starving. He'll wrap his arms around Jack as they sink into the black. He'll eat him up, every last bit of him, then spit him out.

"Hang on. Slow down....."

Cool hands on his face, holding him steady. "Shhh." Jack presses their foreheads together, repeatedly shushes him. "Shhh..." Until he stops wriggling, stops rooting. Jack creeps cool spider fingers under his sweater, walks them up and down his back, brings them to rest on his ass. 

In between (loving, soft) kisses Jack mumbles, he soothes. 

“It’s ok, it’s ok.”

“It’ll be all right.”

“Don’t worry.”

"I've got you."

The kisses, the words – awkward, sincere, earnest, naïve, Jack – don't calm or ground him. They don't stop the roaring in his head. _Youstupidfuckingmoron, youstupidfuckingmoron_.

The kisses, the words, light him up - each one a fresh struck, flowering match tossed on that gasoline soaked rag.

He bites Jack’s neck, hard, right in the spot where he can feel his pulse. Jack raggedly moans, pushes his neck further into his mouth. "Again. Do it again." So he does. Jack fumbles with the buttons on his jeans, but that's not what he wants. He bracelets his wrists. "Not yet." 

He yanks Jack's jeans and underwear halfway down his thighs; licks his palm and fingers and circles them firmly around his dick. Jack drips and swells, thrusts into his hand. Jack wraps fists in his sweater and drags him closer, so he's sandwiched between him and the fridge, so you couldn't fit a piece of paper between them.

For a while, it's like this. Eager, groaning kisses and moist underwear. Humping Jack's leg as he jerks him off, as he brings him to the edge then walks him back. Once, twice. Jack gasping, hiccuping when he grips him up top and says "not yet." Once, twice. The broken sounds Jack makes - that he's listening, doing exactly what he tells him, no matter what he asks - bring him that much closer to coming in his pants. Finally, there's nothing in his head but _Jack Jack Jack_. 

Then Mark remembers. This isn't what he wants. 

He gestures. "Off." Jack scrambles to obey. He's forgotten they're supposed to be taking it slow.

He licks his hand again, uses it to hitch up Jack's leg, knee by his ribs, ankle hooked around the back of his leg. At this angle, his fingers can rest in the cleft between his cheeks. He dips them in. Skims them back and forth, presses them right where Jack likes it. Standing leg buckling, tongue against his, Jack rocks on his fingers, trying to get more friction. Because it's not enough, for Jack it's never enough. He tries to touch himself, to touch him, but he bats his hand away and reminds him "not yet." As he pushes in the tip of a finger he holds Jack's bottom lip between his teeth and tugs, he squeezes his balls, and Jack's keening. 

It makes him lightheaded. It makes him smirk. It makes him question.

How hard could he bite, could he scratch before Jack stopped liking it? Before he said _enough_?

He releases Jack, ignores his disappointed whine. He shucks off his clothes and drops to his knees. Bears down on Jack's dick until he gags. His fingernails are bit down to stubs, but there’s a jagged edge on his thumbnail. He runs it across Jack’s stomach, down his leg, and he surges forward; grabs his hair and holds him in place. Fucks his mouth and his eyes are leaking it's hard to breathe it's what he wants.

Inside his head and belly it’s bright. Blue orange white. Crackling and burning.

He's hard so hard. Aching and full of something. Some things. He can name them, all of them. (Terror, sadness, anger, shame, regret, longing.) Knows they need to go somewhere, have to go somewhere. But he tells himself _not yet_. He digs his thumbs into the space above Jack’s hips, gouges his fingers into his back and ass. He doesn't hold back, and Jack still likes it. 

Out of nowhere, unbelievably, with a determined sigh, Jack loosens his grip and stops moving, pulls out of his mouth and touches his shoulder. "Wait. Stop...Let me get the stuff...I really want you to..."

Jack’s so close. Jack still doesn’t get it.

But he knows what will help him see.

His good angel hovers near the ceiling, wrings its hands. _What are you doing? This is Jack. Control yourself or you’re going to regret it_. But he can’t hear it. (He hears it too late. He hears it, but he doesn’t give a shit.) Because his bad angel is in control. The bad angel makes him blaze, see stars, take flight.

His bad angel doesn’t need to say a thing as he pulls Jack to the kitchen floor; as he holds him in place with fingers around his neck and splays their legs into a snaky V; as he unceremoniously shoves a finger in his ass.

Jack shivers, then goes completely still. He opens his eyes.

“Mark…” Part question, part warning, part want. But he’s a flame. Eyes flickering, lips (heart) twisting, he digs a knee into the stringy meat of Jack’s thigh, a hand into the delicate notch between his collarbones, and pushes in another finger.

Jack seizes his wrist and pours a bucket of ice water over him.

“Stop it.”

"What the fuck is going on?”

He’s back in his body. He’s not on fire, not anymore.

He doesn’t want to talk so he rests his cheek on Jack’s chest, moves against him. That should distract him, but Jack only snares his other hand, keeps talking.

“What’s wrong?”

“Have you been pissed? At me? This whole time?”

"Fucking say something already."

He shimmies up.

_I need you._

He kisses him.

_I want you._

He’s not going to say it. ( _I didn't mean it. I’m sorry. I love you_.) Jack never makes him say it.

But Jack - lips pinched together - keeps him out. Face rigid, eyes frosty, he spasms and shoves his hands away. _Get off me_. He turns limp and noodley. _Get off me_.

“I’d better get back to work. What you said earlier, about leaving. You should do that.”

When he doesn’t move, Jack snarls with frustration, with barely suppressed rage and squiggles out from under him. As he escapes, he knees him in the stomach and elbows him in the throat. He staggers to his feet, huffs with grim satisfaction and gathers his clothes.

He stays on the floor: naked, shriveled, penitent. Jack looms over him - repeatedly opening his mouth and snapping it shut before he can speak; clacking his teeth together with such force he can't help but wince and look apologetic. Which only makes Jack angrier. (Which only makes him do it harder.) 

Jack shakes his head. “What’s the point?”

It’s not a question.

He pivots on his heel and marches down the hallway to the bedroom. Before the door slams he shouts, “You're so fucking stupid. So. Fucking. Stupid. Do you want me to hurt you? Is that what you want?“

He didn't know Jack could be this loud.

He's off the floor and dressed, wishing he was high, when Jack seethes back down the hall to the front door. He's put on his grey sweatshirt, hood up. He’s still talking.

“Miserable fucking cunt. Can’t be happy. Has to bring me down with him.”

He bangs the door open.

“Another year of this bullshit? No fucking way.”

He's got one foot out the door, the other partway there, when he pauses to reconsider. He wheels around to face him.

“You know who you remind me of, when you get like this?”

“No.”

“Take some time to figure it out. Asshole.”

Jack slams the door shut. The windowpanes rattle in sympathy. He listens to him pound down the stairs, shuffle-crunch through the gravel.

Now he’s done it.

He strolls toward Jack, aims for _insouciance_ , but he needn't bother. Jack's sitting cross legged in the semi-frozen mud near the _No Trespassing_ sign, eyes closed once again, ignoring the wet snow dripping on him from the tree branches above. Because he's meditating.

Fuck him. He doesn’t need him. He has a key. He’s _always welcome_. He can come and go as he pleases.

A few feet away from Jack, he stops and digs in the bushes, where he stores his bike. He hadn’t planned on going back to his room tonight. It’s a long walk.

He wobbles off, keeping an ear out in case Jack wants to say something else.

He doesn’t. 

********

He owes his landlord one hundred and ten dollars. That's after he talked him down from two and half times that by offering to pick up the materials and do the repairs himself. By promising he'll pay for it to be done right if he fucks it up. (He will not fuck it up.)

He asks Keith for an advance, and it's not the first time, or even the third. Keith raises his eyebrows, stares pointedly at his cheek. He wordlessly ticks through his litany of long-suffering complaints. _I know better than to ask how you messed up this time_. _Why do I tolerate you? Because if I didn’t you’d be dead in a ditch_. _Also, you’re cheap, can tie your shoes without help, and don’t take sick days._

“I’m busy. Come back at the end of the day.”

He practices his pitch, but it’s unnecessary. His butt has barely made contact with the seat when Keith pushes his chair away from his desk, rolls up his sleeves, and looks at him square.

“Here’s what you’re going to do.”   

He listens to him deliver a familiar verdict. _Easily distracted. Lacking discipline. Unfocused. Missed potential._ He listens to him mete out a novel punishment. _Learn a trade. Fresh start. For your own good. Make something of your life._

Then there’s the dried turd cherry on the top of this liquid shit sundae.

“Your dad did the best he could, but you’re clearly not ready to be left to your own devices. So here I am, sticking my neck out for you one last time. But not here. You're done here. It doesn't suit you." 

He walks along the narrow shoulder of a busy road. Fuming, hoping a car turns a corner too fast and plows into him, ratchets him high in the air. He sees his broken neck and twisted limbs; hears the meaty, soggy sound of bursting organs as he hits the concrete; tastes the blood that dribbles out of his useless mouth.

He rants.

“You can’t tell someone they have to move somewhere. For three fucking years! He doesn’t own me. I’m not his slave! He’s not my dad. And if he was my dad he couldn’t tell me what to do anyway! I’m almost twenty!”

He rolls a joint. He rants some more.

“What the fuck is an apprentice? Like in medieval times? And what the fuck is in Vermont? Nothing, that’s what. Cows. Hippies. College students. _Woodworkers_.”

He denies.

“Fuck Keith. If he fires me - because I won’t toe his arbitrary, fascist, shitheel line, because I have a mind of my own and refuse to kiss his ass - I’ll just find something else. No problem.”

He bargains.

“It’s not forever. I bet I can learn what I need to faster than three years. Two? No more than two years.”

“It could be worse. Keith could want me to live in Maine.”

He reflects.

“It’s probably time to move on. I’ve been in Shit Town too long. And I have been a little restless – on edge - lately.”

“It’s a reminder. No. A kick in the ass. No. A sign. That Jack wasn't, I wasn't supposed to get used to this. I forgot. Some space, some time apart would be good. For both of us.”

It takes him days and days to reach Jack. To start, there’s a brief but mortifying conversation with Karen.

“Oh honey, Jack’s not home right now.”

“It’s almost midnight. Where could he possibly be?”

“I don’t know, Mark. He’s an adult. It's not like he needs a curfew.” Still friendly, but with a clang of steel underneath, and Jack wouldn’t tell his mom anything, would he? Jesus fuck.

“Fine, but when he gets back from wherever he is will you tell him to get in touch because it’s kind of important. _Time sensitive._ ”

He follows up with multiple answering machine messages of increasing urgency. During the last one he does everything but get down on hands and knees and clean Jack’s sneakers with his tongue.

Jack calls him back.

"What the fuck is so important that you couldn't leave me alone for one fucking week?" 

Jack agrees to meet him at the pizza place. He walks there, he practices his speech.

“It’s sort of like college, and you’re going to college, so this is good, right? We’ll still see each other. You can visit me. I’ll visit you. It’ll give you a chance to focus on school. To meet new people. It’ll give me a chance to get my shit together. You want me to do that, right? Just the other day you told me I should do that. Remember that?”

He sits on one side of the table, Jack on the other. They order a half pepperoni, half sausage pie. Jack asks for a pitcher of Mountain Dew and he doesn’t say a single word about it.

He explains and explains. Jack blows bubbles in his soda, picks off all the pepperoni and doesn’t offer him any. Not even a bite.

“You want to do this?”

“I didn't want to at first, but now...yeah. Why not? It'll be good for me to live somewhere new. It's been a while. And the work could be less boring than what I'm doing now." He tries to project _positivity_. "It might open up stuff for me. Opportunities. To make a little more money. Plus, it'll be good for you. You should get out there, make more friends, meet people. Not just hang out all the time with a loser like me.”

“So things will be different. For you and...me.”

“They don’t have to be…”

“Really? You really think that?” Jack's soft-spoken. Polite. Also flat - no inflection, no expectation there's any solution to this problem other than the most obvious one. So he doesn't forget whose fault it is they're having this conversation, the rest of Jack (those fucking eyes) projects all the doubt - the scorn, disappointment and fury - he won't give voice to. 

He shrugs. (He's making this up as he goes.) He keeps his piehole shut. 

"When are you leaving?"

"Pretty soon. Start of the month..."

Jack picks up the shaker of parmesan. He unscrews the top, draws zig-zags in the puddle he rains on the sticky lino. He focuses steadfastly on his perambulating finger.

“Do you want to come home?”

“I thought you were…”

“No.”

He doesn’t believe him. But he wants to.

Jack trails kisses – unrelenting, tender, precise - from his forehead to the tops of his feet.

“Turn over.”

He clutches his pillow and buries his face in it. He snuffles. But only once, only the tiniest bit.

Jack wends a crooked path from his ankles to his neck. He lays on top of him, presses him into the forgiving mattress. Jack's worn out sweats and old flannel shirt rub soft against his bare skin. His fingers are claws, his hands rigid, unyielding, but Jack persists. He rubs them until they soften, then winds their fingers together. He tenses his shoulders, hides his neck, but Jack doesn't leave him alone until he drops them, until he finds it. He noses into that spot behind his ear, kisses it again and again.

“It’s ok.”  

He grieves.

******** 

Eleven months. A summer, autumn, winter and spring of Mark before and beneath and around and above him; tangible and pliable, warm and wanting, aching and open. His.

Now their time is drawing to an end.

What's that? You have some questions? 

_He's not so ingenuous, so willfully stupid as to be surprised by this outcome?_

_He's not so out of touch with reality, so ludicrously in love that he let himself hope he and Mark could maintain this delicate status quo (don't question, don't demand, don't advertise) forever?_

_He's not so forgetful, so lacking in basic common sense and self-preserving instincts that he was surprised when Mark torched his life in Shit Town and backed himself into a corner, gave himself no choice but to move? When Mark, overwhelmed and broke and scared, turned on the one person who wants to help him (the one person who loves him)? After all, he's done it before._

What is it Mark's always mumbling? Oh yes. _Don't get used to this._

June arrives. Mark leaves. The days before, they don’t leave their room unless it's absolutely necessary. They get high and cling to each other, silent and focused. They fuck like rabbits, one round barely over and the next one starts up. 

His dick hurts. His ass hurts. 

Before Mark leaves he reminds him, “Whatever happens, happens. If you meet someone, if I meet someone...” Mark tightens his jaw and nods, grudgingly. “Sure. If that's what you want...” He informs him, “We should, you know, take some time. You’ve got stuff to do. I do too. I'll be in touch.” Mark reaches and snags fingers in his belt loops, tries to pull him close. He digs in his heels, gives him one of the new, neutral expressions he’s been working on. “Ok, then. Have a good trip.” He offers him a fist, a chest. To bump, of course.

Before Mark leaves he does not enlighten him, "Four hundred and sixty five days. Give or take. Then I'll also be gone, and won't you be sorry. You coward. You fucking asshole."

He takes everything Mark’s left at the house. Dead lighters, creased comic books, slimy t-shirts and wormy flannels; a smelly pair of sneakers with a hole in the right toe; tapes he doesn't listen to but won’t throw away; a pack of guitar strings, a frayed deck of cards, a pawn that got away; a torn sandwich bag with a fistful of shake; sealed bags of jellybeans, candy corn and watermelon Jolly Ranchers; mini snow globes, dollar sunglasses, novelty key chains, and other equally useless items “liberated” from all over town then gifted to him, like a cat bringing dead birds home. He puts them in a box. He takes a rusty spoon and gouges out the section of his heart branded _Mark_. Adds it to the box. He puts the box in a corner of his closet and covers it with more boxes. He needs it to be hard to reach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consensual rough sex done with bad intent (to cause emotional rather than physical harm.)


	12. Against The Grain

The shop manager (paunchy and sweaty and garrulous, undersized feet and the burnt red face of a drinker, won't stop saying his name) gives him a tour. In various stages of readiness, in myriad colors, shapes and sizes there are cabinets, bookcases, tables and countertops; shelves, beams, railings and benches.

“Wood ceilings for restaurants are real popular, Mark. Last year we made an indoor swing for this Oriental lady, hung it from her living room ceiling. Do you know what she said, Mark? That it reminded her of home.”

He tries to maintain his distance, but it’s hard not to be impressed. Hard not to wonder whether he could do this, and if so, what it would mean for him. Even the simple stuff looks good: substantial and supple; clean edges, tight joins, smooth finishes. Nothing is frou-frou and busy, shadowy and ponderous. The kind of furniture that lurks in corners that will never be touched by sunlight, that collects dust in its grooves, makes you stiff and tired to look at it. Like someone’s placed a pitted, mossy stone directly on your chest, and it's hard to breathe.

He sees the machines - sanders, routers, saws, shapers, and planers. A switch flicks, and his brain illuminates the words. Table, jig, miter, band, hand, circular, coping. Straight, cross, rabbet, rip, dado, quarter and curved. Mortise and tenon. Half-lap, finger, pocket. Tongue and groove. Bridle and dowel.

Two schools before Capital (Cleveland: the places they moved got smaller and smaller, Dad circling the drain in ever tightening circles) he took shop.

It made sense: design, plan, execute. Measure twice, cut once.

It was the opposite of what he was used to. _Read the next six paragraphs and answer the following four questions, being sure to use the ten essential terms we discussed Tuesday, in the format laid out in your graphic organizer, which you will have if you were in class last week and didn't forget to bring it with you today. You have twenty-three minutes._

A few of the items he turned out didn’t look half bad.

The last couple of years have been different than what came before. He’s been overwhelmed and manic, hasn’t always felt like himself. He’s been knocked on the head one too many times.

He’d forgotten about the class.

********

It doesn’t happen on purpose.

He’s downtown on a bright summer evening, board in hand, killing time. She's in the middle of the sidewalk, fiddling with a slipped chain. He stops to help. She smiles and twists a finger through a strand of hair that's escaped her braid; asks if she can buy him a beer, to say thanks.

He says no, but hears Jack. _We should keep things loose. If you meet someone, if I meet someone. Whatever happens, happens._

He’s spent years lonely, years alone.

But not recently.

He’s gotten out of the habit.

She’s bright and vinegary, with a narrow, hungry face, a pouty bottom lip, and a tongue that slashes, then soothes him. She has blink and you’ll miss them boobs, mashed up toes and quads that could break his neck. A long neck and feet that turn out when she walks, like a duck's.

He undoes her braid and her hair, thick and black, ripples halfway down her back. She wraps it around his dick, it hangs around her like a curtain when she rides him.

She talks and talks about things he's never thought about, and he only has to sit back and listen.

********

The job is, mostly, not difficult to grasp. There’s his _prior experience._ He can follow instructions and, since this is work, he usually behaves himself. He understands the mechanics of a crew, doesn’t mind doing menial work, and is appropriately grateful when he’s allowed to do less menial work. He has _a good eye_. He’s stronger than he looks.

What he doesn’t have, is math. His boss asks him how much it'll cost to buy two pieces of lumber, each nine by thirteen by twenty-five inches, at a price of seven bucks a board foot. He stalls, asks for a calculator and a piece of paper, but after a minute or two of faking it has to admit he has no clue where to start. His boss asks him how he installed baseboards and moldings, matched mitered trim pieces, if he didn’t know how to use a compass.

“Oh, that wasn’t my job. Someone else did that.” 

“Should I waste my time, and yours, by asking you to draw me a precise S curve or place the legs evenly on a three legged stool? Calculate the slope for your dovetail?"

“I figured you’d teach me?”

Long faced and short-legged, with small, wide set eyes and large, soft ears - more goat than man - the boss examines him from behind a scraggly beard made up of tight-loose brown curls. Like his face is covered in pubes. “Well, Mark, I’m not here to teach you what you didn’t learn in high school, what you should have known before you set foot in my shop." The words aren't nice, but his tone, not unfriendly, softens them.

The boss waits for him to pout, to bitch and moan. To give up. When he doesn't do any of these, when he thrusts out his jaw and doesn't break eye contact, when he nods - _I get it_ \- he gets one in return. And this: "There's a GED class - a free one at the community college. After you leave here, that should be your first stop."

********

He follows through, he registers. He's reminded it's been more than two years since he's set foot in a classroom. He sees it like it's happening right now, Jack and him grounded, on account of getting caught skipping.

He’s lying on the floor, Jack's next to him, flipping through a textbook, filling out index cards. “You need to quiz me on these, when I’m done."

He’s lying on the floor, smoking a joint. Ash drifts, crumbles onto his face, pollen swept from windy trees.

"Gulf of Tonkin, Tet Offensive, My Lai Massacre..."

"Don't talk about this shit at dinner. He'll shout all night if you get him started."

He’s lying on the floor, Jack’s stretched out on his side next to him, stroking his arm. 

He giggles. “You’re giving me the good goose bumps.”

“Want more?”

“Sure. Why not?”

He’s lying on the floor, Jack’s fingers spiral on top of his shirt. 

“Good?”

“Go under.”

He’s lying on the floor, rumbly-purring as Jack rubs his stomach. His arms, his legs are broad and boneless. He focuses on the ceiling, and it spins in counterpoint to Jack's hand.

"Better?"

"Mmm-hmmm..."

Jack’s fingers brush against his belt buckle. He arches to meet them, wants to feel them, harder, against him.

If he looked at Jack, would Jack know what he was thinking?

If he asked, would Jack undo his belt?

If he undid it himself, unzipped his jeans, would Jack slip his hand inside?

Touch him on top of his underwear, touch him underneath it, touch him _there_?

How would that feel - good or gross?

He sits up. The room pitches and sways and he rolls with it; scrubs his hands across his eyes and through his hair. He bites down, hard, on the inside of his cheek, the webbing between thumb and finger. Jack flops onto his back, sticks a hand down his jeans and adjusts. Mark watches him touch himself, can't look away. He feels it in his belly. Rising, filling him up, crowding out thought until all that's left is this: heavy and warm, reaching for Jack. Who looks at him with his glistening, baby owl eyes, looks at him like he’s the best thing in the world. Jack's lips are pink and grey, crusty and flaking, and he won't stop licking them. His hair fans out on either side of his head. Like wings. Like a girl.

“Gimme those flash cards.”

Fifty three hours later, he’s gone.

********

He skulks always last minute into a low-ceilinged room with rows of long tables placed end to end, too close together. The bleary fluorescents flicker and buzz, the projector screen lists like a drunk.

His teacher beckons.

“Mark, join us.”

“I’m good. I can see everything from here.”

“No, really. _Join us._ ”

He moves forward a couple of tables.

It isn’t pretty, but he ekes it out. The week after he passes his test, a chart taped to the back wall of the shop catches his eye.

"That's our board feet calculator. We've got cheat sheets for everything."

********

One day she’s talking, and she finds out about Jack. He tries to change the subject, but she doesn’t let him.

“You cannot tell me you did it with a guy and expect me to talk about something else. Is this your friend Jack? The one you're always going on about? Who you used to live with? It's all starting to make sense!”

He's scared and embarrassed and apologetic. He explains as best he can.

"We've always been safe. He hasn't been with anyone besides me. Ever. And I haven’t seen him since I left in June because we’re…it's...” He remembers the words. “We’re not together. It’s not like that.”

He expects her to shriek and cry and kick him out. To run around town telling everyone who'll listen what he's done. To make his life hell.

Instead, she asks him for details. She doesn't leave him alone until he provides some.

“Did he do it like this? No? Tell me, show me, what he did. You like it more like that, the way he did it? What else could I do? Does that mean you’re into anal? I should get some plugs, maybe a strap-on. Would you like that?”

"Ummm...."

He's off-balance, uncomprehending.

"People use that stuff in real life? Not as a joke? I always figured it to be a porn thing..."

They’ve only been having sex for a few weeks. Maybe, for now, they should stick with the basics?

"Do you top or bottom?"

She's caught him off guard. That must be why he continues talking - describing - long after he should have stopped.

"I never really thought about it like that. We weren't, you know, for that long before I left...If I had to pick? You really want to know? Maybe...more the second than the first? It's not like I was keeping score..."

Did he really tell her about Jack? Why? Did she ask him? He didn’t volunteer the information, did he?

********

The days pass.  He finds his rhythm.

Monday to Friday, morning and afternoon, he helps to create flat things. He watches as wood is selected, measured and verified; cut and sized, shaped and glued; lacquered, spray painted and sealed. Sometimes, under close supervision, he’s allowed to do one of these things. He cleans the floors and machines, runs back and forth to the lumber yard, hammers nails into wood. He learns how to: read blueprints; make and install baseboards; space and cut joints. He hauls finished planks to houses, stores, offices and restaurants and helps assemble them, puzzle pieces slotted together, drilled into the wall. Arrange them this way and they’re a custom cabinet; arrange them that way and they're a custom bookcase, ceiling, closet, staircase.

He paints. He will never be finished with stripping, prepping and painting walls.

Most Friday and Saturday nights, a few Thursday and Monday nights, he spends in town. He smokes, hangs out near the bus station, but doesn't allow his fun to cross too far over the line. (Not as easy as it sounds. Some of the regulars are crazy.) He crashes the occasional party, goes to his girl’s. For her birthday, he lets her use the strap-on, talks her through it, and she's thrilled. He declines her offer to return the favor, and she's relieved. To ease her embarrassment, he describes Jack and his first attempts to have sex. She laughs, and he laughs with her.

It's nice, to have someone to talk to about him.

Sunday evening, he eats dinner with the boss and his family. Second wife, first set of twins. "For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful."

To start, it’s uncomfortable. He's defensive, sees slights where none are meant; arms himself with words against what never comes, uses them regardless because he has them. Over time, it becomes easier. There are no diatribes disguised as sermons, no beetled eyebrows and scrunched lips. Instead, there are one pot meals and a bunch of scratchy folk records. Easy-going conversations that don't mask they're paying attention to how he uses his time, both on and off the clock. That demonstrate they're interested in what he has to say.

He comes to understand this is what they do: take in strays, improve their situation. Because it's good Christian behavior. Though they don't ask him more than twice if he'd like to attend church with them, and he doesn’t volunteer. Sunday mornings are for sleeping in.

After dinner, he plays with the kids: Legos and checkers and Uno; football and baseball. They want him to teach them the guitar, and he's thinking about it.

On special occasions they walk up to him, hands behind their backs, vibrating with anticipation. He mimes ignorance, and with a flourish they pull out their Game Boy and a cartridge. "Mom said we could."

One on each side, they huddle close: flannel pajamas, damp hair and milky breath; sticky palms and squishy fingers. Their faces are pink from hot baths, soapy washcloths and excitement.

They watch him play Donkey Kong.

"Na-na-na-NAH! Na-na-na-NAH-na-na-na!!"

"Look out for the barrel!"

"The fish! The fish! It's gonna get you. I'm so scared."

"It's not a fish, dummy, it's a pig."

"Don't call me dumb. Poopface."

"You got the key! You got the key!"

In chipmunk voices they shout conflicting instructions; scream and run around the room when Mario's about to die. Before he leaves, he tickles them until they beg for mercy (start to pee in their pants.)

Monday to Sunday, once a day, no set time, he allows himself to wonder if today is the day he'll hear from Jack. 

********

He sleeps. He dreams.

In some ways, it’s the same.

His bed is in a basement. When he’s in a bed located elsewhere there's a warm body wrapped around him; there's warm breath in his ear and hair that tickles the back of his neck.

There's his dad, forever jeering at him. He never successfully defends himself - barely has the presence of mind to splutter a feeble _But! But! That's not fair!_ There's his mom, walking away from him, disappearing around a corner, a second, third and fourth one. He closes the gap between them, but never is close enough to touch her. He eats an undercooked rat for dinner, and it's obviously revolting, he can barely swallow it down. Everyone watching him is appalled, but he pretends it's the tastiest thing he has ever had. He has a three-way with those two hot girls from Star Trek.

In other ways, it’s different.

He doesn’t need buckets or traps. He’s got sheets and a closet sized kitchen all to himself - two burners soldered on top of a mini-fridge, a set of dishes and a slice of counter space. Through his window he has a view of the backyard. There's a fenced in garden with a tangle of blueberry bushes; a picnic table and a glider; a birdbath and a miniature greenhouse; trellises for tomatoes and raised beds for lettuce, spinach, carrots and parsley. After a couple of months of probation he's allowed to periodically turn right when he leaves his room, into the green, instead of forever left, down the driveway and onto the road. He places a folding chair on the walkway next to the house, tilts his head back and lets the sun shine on him.

He floats down the Amazon on a red-brown houseboat. Swings in a giant hammock, not wearing a stitch of clothing because there's no one around for miles and miles. He spears fish right out of the water; cleans and cooks them on deck. He pokes at leeches, laughs at alligators, talks to the parrots and the toucans and asks for their opinion on the monkeys - they're assholes - and the snakes - they're fucking assholes.

(And Jack's there. And they’re happy.)

********

After his Dad left, he waited to hear from him.

He didn’t expect his parents to get back together. He wasn't a little kid anymore, knew that wasn’t an option. He wasn't a little kid anymore, didn’t want it to be an option. For some time their family had been a cardboard cutout. A loud one. The quiet was a relief.

He did assume, however, that his dad would call him. Do what a man who up and leaves his kid and high school sweetheart so he can be with the girl - yes, girl, barely out of high school - who cleans his teeth typically does. Have dinner with him. Take him fishing and to a game. Buy him, out of guilt, a winter coat, a Play Station, a new skateboard. Inquire if he can help pay for something significant – a car or college. Ask him about school and life and if he’s happy. He might even apologize for being an asshole, for making it patently clear, as far back as he can remember, that his son didn't meet expectations, was not who he was hoping for.

Weeks went by and he didn’t hear from him. He said nothing. Mom said nothing. Months went by and he didn’t hear from him. He inquired, casually, “Any word from Dad?" Mom answered, less casually, “Not yet, but he’ll be in touch soon. He’s a good dad. He loves you.” Her pained expression a dead giveaway that every word spilling from her mouth was complete bullshit.

Stuff like that used to make him feel bad. He'd hide in his room: sit in his chair, stare at the wall while he dreamt up elaborate revenge scenarios; power through rapid push-ups (ten, at most twenty) until his shoulders gave out and he collapsed on his rug. Play _Ozma_ at full blast, surrender to the drums and guitar, the murky drone and sludgy feedback; take comfort in how they colonized every available space in his brain, left room for nothing else. 

No more. He’s growing up.

He looks for a car, which he'll need to get to his fall semester, crack of dawn clinicals (followed by labs, lectures, study groups and so many, many pieces of paper to three hole punch and stick in binders.) He gets a job, to pay for this car. He becomes the go-to guy when someone is looking for a sub to pick up their shift.

He eats standing in front of the fridge, shoveling wedges of cold ham and chicken, folded up slices of cheese and bread into his mouth while he thinks about bed. When he finally gets there, for the first time in his life appreciating what it means to be tired, he sleeps on the edge of consciousness. Dreams - good ones, bad ones - flit to and fro, near the surface, but when he wakes and reaches for them they're gone.

One day Mom asks absent-mindedly, while he's helping unload groceries from her car, if he’d like to watch some TV, maybe check out the skate park. Also, when is Mark coming to visit, he’s been gone for what, three months? Almost four? 

"We're busy. I've got school and now this job. No point in Mark going back and forth. Better he save his money."

She nods, face full of addled sympathy. He pretends he doesn't understand what she's saying, sticks his head deep into the brown paper bag he's carrying. "Did you get those Hot Pockets I like?"

The weekend returns. He attends a party he wasn’t planning to. He gets drunk and chatty. "You were in my Anatomy class last year? No way. I definitely would have noticed you." The morning after, he wakes up and stumbles through his excuses. "Great party work gotta run school this was fun see you around." He does his first drive of shame home. He hopes it's not his last.

He always assumed, if by assumed you mean didn’t ever think about it because he wasn’t thinking about anything, that he’d live and die within a one hour car drive of Shit Town. Like his mom. Like his dad (until he didn’t; but that seemed even more reason to stick with the original plan.) He’d go somewhere close by after graduation. To do something. He had time to figure it out. Next year, next year. 

Yet here he is. He's not exactly sure how he arrived at this destination. He's almost certain it was of his own volition.

The days pass, one foot in front of the other, but his head is up, he's looking in front of him. He learns. Newborn babies are tiny and ugly and it's not that hard to change a diaper; women who have just given birth cry - and queef - a lot; the human body is amazing, and after more than a year of studying it he barely understands how all the parts slot together; needles and tubes are cool, especially when you insert them into people; blood isn’t that bad, burns are horrifying and skin infections are the worst; doctors are indeed fucking assholes; Wednesdays are for suicide attempts, Fridays for homicide attempts; washing your hands is really important and his whole life he's been doing it wrong (he’s been eating his own, and everybody else's, shit); if someone comes to the ER saying their back hurts they're a drug addict; dying people spend a lot of time alone, watching television; when he asks someone how they're feeling he'd better have an exit strategy or he's going to be standing there, nodding along for twenty minutes and when she finds out his supervisor will be more annoyed with him than she usually is.

He feels. That it's good to help people. To be useful. To have purpose.

He realizes. _This forced march I've put myself on, it has an end._ He thinks. _Maybe Mrs. Lincoln's goal wasn't to make a fool of me. Maybe Sarah didn't point me in this direction because she was mad at me for lying about Mark._ He hopes. _I'm tired all the time, and I suck so this is harder than it should be. I can do this._

At work, he volunteers for the Thanksgiving shift.

“Oh honey."

“What?”

“You can take a day off.”

“I’m good. You don’t want to cook on Thanksgiving when it's only the two of us. You don't even like turkey.”

“So we'll only make your favorites. Stuffing and mashed potatoes, mac and cheese." She shares a conspiratorial grin. "A few green beans so we can say we had vegetables. You could invite someone over. You’ve made a couple of new friends, haven't you? I've heard you making plans.” She leans her hip, her shoulder into his, angling for details.

He leans back, but doesn't budge. “Yeah, but it’s not like that. It’s just a school thing. I mean, sometimes I hang out with...And it's fun. It's not serious, though. Mostly we study.”

"Mostly."

"Uh-huh."

“Are you too old for a cuddle?”

“Yes.”

“What would make you feel better?" She ruffles his hair. "You haven't been yourself.”

He smooths it back in place. “If I felt bad, you could worry. But I’m fine. I'm good. I'm better than myself.”

Her forehead puckers, but she limits herself to a mildly disbelieving, "If that's what you want." 

At the end of a slow night he walks through the door. Mom's sitting at the bar, working her way through a bottle of red wine and a bowl of stir-fried vegetables. She twirls a tipsy fork at him.

"Sit. Have some. I want to tell you something. Something exciting!"

He wraps an arm around reedy shoulders, squeezes them gently, and she proffers her cheek. She's wearing the expensive perfume, the one Dad bought her shortly before he left. The one she hordes and wears when she wants to _feel pretty_. He slumps on the stool on the other side of the bar. Takes a big gulp from her glass, then another. It quiets him from the inside out. He grins at Mom, and she's happy.

She’s leaving town, to visit a friend. "Not for long, and only after Thanksgiving. I want to spend it with you, even if it's just to say good night. I'll be sure to leave you some food before I go."

He takes a sip. “I'm excited. I had no idea you have friends.” 

He sifts through her vegetables, snags the baby corns she was saving for last. They're really tasty. Also very confusing. Worrisome. How did they get so small? Where did their cobs go?

“Jack.” She reaches across the bar, stabs him in the arm with her fork. "Look at me. I have something for you."

With a flourish, a look of deep, tactful understanding, she hands him. A postcard. 

“You should keep in touch with your friends too. Since you don’t like to talk to them on the phone.”

“I’ll get right on it,” he deadpans. She rolls her eyes heavenward and asks for patience, tries to make him see reason, but he didn't ask for her advice. He's already off the stool, is headed to his room. "Gotta study." He tosses the card on the floor and goes straight to his desk. Afterwards, he plays _Streets of Rage_ for longer than he should. He gets into bed and for the first time in forever he plummets into sleep: an avalanche through a canyon, a corpse tossed from a ten story window. In the morning, he steps on the card on his way out the door.

School, study, work, home, study, beat the shit out of people, bed. _See_ , he tells himself, _I don't need anyone. I like being by myself, and in some ways - in lots of ways - this reversion to the mean is good. I keep ending up here, and there must be a reason for it. Maybe everything that went down with Mark happened for a reason. It was the universe's way of reminding me to stay focused. On getting out._

Then he remembers this dream. 

He and Mark have done the usual. Made it through lunch; or maybe only through second period, when they take attendance, and snuck out. They wander to a deserted corner of the park. 

He’s sitting, propped against a tree. A ridiculous one – a weeping cherry in full blossom, branches extending all the way to the ground. So dense with foliage that no passersby can spy the two of them, resting in its harbor. There’s a thick carpet of petals under them, more falling slowly all around. He’s plucking them out of Mark’s hair, but it’s like playing _Kaboom!_ The moment he pulls one out another drifts down. 

Mark’s lying between his legs, back snug against his chest, smoking a joint. 

“Give it up, Jack.” 

He doesn't stop.

“It’s annoying. You look stupid.”

“It is what it is. Why’re you always trying to control everything? You want to tell the earth to stop spinning?”

“Not everything. Just you." Mark snorts. _Predictable. Needy, greedy child._ But that's not right. "It’s not about being in control. It’s about being certain of what comes next. Doesn't not knowing scare you?”

Mark brings the joint to his lips. He continues finger-combing his hair.

“You can’t be sure of anything. We’re not in control of anything. I couldn't manage to kill myself. With two fucking guns.” 

“That’s good, isn't it?" Mark blows perfect smoke rings, one inside the other. "For me, if no one else.”

“You say that now, but you don't always think that. Won't always think that. One day you'll want someone different. Someone better.”

Mark says it so emphatically that his protest - _never, no fucking way, it's you and only you, forever and always_ \- dies as it leaves his mouth. The silence sounds a lot like agreement. Mark flicks the roach into the grass and wiggles against him. Bored with talking, with this conversation they have yet to resolve to both their satisfaction.

“Didja know weed makes me horny?”

“Everything makes you horny.” 

“Mmmm…and it feels good.”

Mark cranes his neck to look at him. Once he's sure he has his attention, he points to his dick, a distinct presence in his jeans.

“I’m gonna explode if I don’t do something. You don’t mind, do you?” But he's already unzipping his fly, pushing his jeans down.

His eyes bulge. He gulps. Exaggerated, Looney Tunes reactions, no sound effects needed. He waits for Mark to snicker, to snidely nibble on a carrot. To whisk this perfect tableau away and once more send him careening off a cliff. When Mark doesn't, when he keeps looking at him - lips parted, lids heavy, transparent with desire he knows this expression he's been the object of it more times than he can count - he ekes out a husky, “Nah, I don't mind. I've seen it before. Well, not seen it because that would mean I was looking...and I absolutely wouldn't but...but I've heard it. S'fine."

"Don't watch."

"Of course not."

Mark slides his hand down, and he closes his eyes, listens to their breaths harshen, deepen. His body's motionless in a way that's only possible when every cell in his body is focused on something outside him. His hands are on either side of Mark, clutching fallen flowers, digging in the dirt. Mark spreads his legs wide, rubs them against his; tilts his head back and doesn't protest when he sneaks a kiss, when he sucks his earlobe into his mouth, then releases it. Mark must feel him, hard against his ass, starting to move. Although he's not supposed to. Or is he? He'll never understand what Mark wants from him, not deep down in his bones, where it really counts. Head against his shoulder, Mark's quiet to start, but soon he’s whispering and that’s how he knows he’s close. He’s heard it before, from the top bunk. Mark gasps, "Jack, I'm gonna," and he rocks up, wants to help, clamps down on a desperate groan when he doesn't see it spurting out of him, dripping down his fingers. He's a pervert, a creep, has an overwhelming desire to bring Mark’s hand to his mouth, to suck and lick it clean. He’s about to ask if he can. No. Forget asking, for once he's going to take what he wants, when he jerks and goes boneless under him.

Then he spends most of his clinical day teching: stripping sheets, removing bedpans, cleaning the smelly, decaying asses sitting in them. Instead of getting a pat on the head he receives a lecture on neglecting his paperwork, questions about medication administration that he fumbles the answers to; a dressing-down in front of his classmates, embarrassed on his behalf but also trying not to grin because they're thankful it's not them. The day is followed by an evening of more standing and cleaning: this time in a ninety-five degree kitchen while he tries not to skid in a puddle of dishwater or on an oily shred of lettuce; while he ignores the guys calling each other ass-munchers and faggots, telling each other to go suck a dick; while he wonders if they know they're talking about him. He should spend half the night catching up on homework, but who gives a shit it's all totally fucking pointless. What the hell is he doing with his life? He will die alone, unloved. A pathetic punchline to a bad joke. Can he start all over and do it right this time?

He breathes in and out: lying down, sitting cross legged on his bed, sitting crossed legged on the floor, lying on the floor.

He turns on his lamp and goes to his closet, digs out the box buried under the other boxes. Opens it and reacquaints himself with the contents. He lifts a blue, black and grey checked flannel shirt to his nose and breathes it in, rubs it all over his face. He puts it on, over his t-shirt. He slips one of the tapes in his player and lowers the volume. He gets back into bed with a pile of comics and a bag of jellybeans, munches while he reads one, then a second and a third.

He tentatively prods the piece of his heart branded _Mark_. It’s still beating. 


	13. Whatever Happens, Happens

Jack sends him a _Greetings from Albany!_ postcard. In miniscule print, blocky and hesitant, each word inked on paper grudgingly, against his better judgment, he's written: _Mom’s out of town. 2nd weekend in December. If you want a change of scene. Come down. Sure you’re busy cause really short notice. If not might be fun. To hang out._ He immediately calls and leaves a message. "No plans. See you then." He calls a second time and leaves another message. In case the first didn’t go through.

His alternator is fucked. He's got unpaid tickets and no insurance. He doesn't have money for gas. He takes the bus down.

Five hours and forty one minutes later he pulls into a truck stop a few miles out of town. Through the smurchy window he sees Jack: slouched against his car, hands huddled in his coat pockets, new (still stupid) navy hat jammed low on his forehead. The hard knot in his jaw loosens, his shoulders slip down. He presses his hand against the glass.

A little after lunch, and the day's winding down. The clouds are thick and low, coin grey and bulging. With a running jump he could slip inside them. They blend into the concrete overhangs, Jack's coat and car, the rows and rows of semi-trailers. In the distance, to the north and west, he sees darker clouds massing - iron and ominous.

Jack smiles, doesn’t show his teeth.

“Hey.”

He keeps it equally easygoing. Stuffs his free hand in his back pocket and gives him a side of the mouth grin. 

“Hey.”

“How was your trip?”

“Smelly. Were you waiting long?”

"Not really. I know these are never on time."

They get in Jack's car (two door Datsun, one hundred and sixty three thousand miles and change, rusty fenders and barely functioning tape deck; but unlike his car, it starts.) They drive to the other diner and slide into their preferred booth by the window. Set aside from the other tables, patched fire engine vinyl flanking dingy white plastic and chrome. They order French fries. Jack eats them one by one, dipping each first in ketchup, next in mayonnaise. He chews with intent. His brow furrows as he appraises them.

_How would I rate this one? Below average. Burnt black at both ends, crunchy rather than crispy. This one? Meh. Look how it sags in the middle, can't hold itself up, turns to mush in my mouth. Now this one. I don't want to get my hopes up, but...not too thick, not too thin. Crispy on the outside, moist yet dense on the inside. Maintains its shape, melts in the mouth. Mwah! It’s perfect._

He watches a greasy compound of salt, oil, ketchup and mayo accrete on Jack’s lips. They coat the corners of his mouth, the groove under his bottom lip and the trench below his nose. 

"Mom got me some hours, at the restaurant."

"Oh yeah? How's that going?"

"I'm in the back. Washing dishes.

"No getting your ass pinched by drunk salesmen?"

He wants to scoot to Jack’s side of the bench and rest his head on his shoulder. Swing a leg over him, sit in his lap and press their noses together. Suck slowly on Jack's bottom lip, on his tongue until their mouths taste the same.

He adjusts.

"It'd be worth it if it meant more money. I'm getting totally stiffed on tips. New guy and all. Gotta pay my dues."

"It's fun, ain't it. Climbing the ladder."

"The best. And when I'm done, I get to go home and study. The other night, I fell asleep while driving home from my shift. Just for a second, but when I woke up I'd drifted into the other lane and a pickup was barreling towards me. Took half an hour for my hands to stop shaking."

Now Jack’s talking to him about school. He’s nodding along, saying the right things. At the same time he's imagining Jack crawling under the table, unzipping his pants and putting that oily mouth on his dick. He's picturing how'd he pull his hair, not try to hold himself in place.

“Do you like it there?”

“It’s all right, I guess. I met some guys who are pretty cool. My boss could be worse. I’m learning new stuff, that motherfucker Keith wasn’t wrong. But it’s a college town – liberal, smug. Painfully correct.”

“Better than conservative and threatening to rip your nuts off ‘cause you tell them their racist joke isn't very funny. That happened to me just last week.”

“You’d think, but the shit some of those assholes say." Jack's elbow is propped on the table. He's resting his cheek in his hand. For the first time since that night, since he fucked them up, he's looking directly at him. Reserving judgment, waiting to hear more. It's enough to make his insides warm and soft, like they're giving off light. 

He keeps talking. "Did you know I'm falsely conscious?”

"Like brain dead? Yes."

"No, I'm serious. Did you know I'm too ignorant to know what I really want, what's good for me? That I don't think in the right way about the future. That I  _fail to act in my own self-interest_?"

Jack laughs so sharply he snorts.

"And you're saying I should disagree with this?"

"She was talking about politics - voting." He blurts it out, prickly and posturing, mouth suddenly dry. "Not sex or being together. Not feelings. Not everything is about that, you know." As he says it he blanches: in fear, in regret. There's no reason for him to be mad.

He reaches a hand across the table, but reels it back in before it makes contact. "I'm sorry. That came out different than I meant."

Jack doesn't take offense. He smiles companionably. "It's ok." Shifts in his seat and gives him a glancing kick to the shin, leaving his foot close to his boot.  "So you're involved in politics now? Worked to get out the vote these last few months?"

"You know I don't waste my time with that shit. Being _civic-minded_."

He's rewarded with another smile - amused, though he doesn't want to be. Almost a real one. "Just checking. All the new things you're doing. People you're meeting."

"Not that many new people. Not that many new things. Anyway, no one's going to change me. Not unless I want to."

He bumps his boot against Jack's foot.

Who doesn't pull away, who hooks his sneaker around his ankle and sucks thoughtfully on a salt encrusted finger. "Good to know." 

They sit in silence for a couple of minutes. It's safe. Cozy, even.

"I gotta take a piss."

He lingers by the counter and reads the daily specials chalked red and green on the board. Watches Jack chat with the waitress, have the same conversation he's had with her at least a hundred times. "You're so tall, so grown-up. And how handsome you are! I remember back when you were seven...what a shy, quiet boy. How's your mom? The sweetest lady..."

Jack talks to her like this is the first time in his whole life she's said this to him. He doesn't roll his eyes even once. He doesn't say, "She's the same as she was last month. And did you know I've been this height for the last three years?"

“Do you want anything else?”

“Maybe some pie? Looks like they have chocolate today.”

“Oh, good idea. Me too.”

They pay their bill.

“What do you want to do now?”

“We could see a movie.”

“No, we couldn't. It’s all Hallmark, holiday bullshit. Unless you want to go and talk shit.”

“Not really feeling it today."

"So we should head home?”

They're under the awning, blocking traffic. The angry clouds have moved in. Sparse, sleety raindrops rat-a-tat the sidewalk. The wind whips the rest of them horizontal, thorny branches lashing his face. His eardrums ache.

"It's pretty gross out."

The windshield wipers can't keep up. Jack sits high and tight to the wheel, one foot on the brake, the other on the gas. Alternating. They park close to the house, sprint up the splintered steps and through the front door.

“Hey, d’you want to watch something? Should we have picked up a movie from the library?”

Jack's already at the hall, swinging left to his room, shrugging out of his coat. He lets it fall to the floor as he swivels to look at him. Astounded. Exasperated.  

“No. No, I don’t want to _watch a movie_.”

His dick springs to attention. He wants Jack to touch him, needs Jack to touch him, waits for Jack to touch him.

Jack smiles at him with his eyes, but stays where he is. So he shuffles towards him - five, six hesitant steps between kitchen and couch. Wraps a timid hand around the back of his neck and kneads it. Jack murmurs, pleased, but doesn't move closer. He takes another step and a half, near enough to breathe in his gooey sweet, candy shop breath. It steams up his nose, tickles the hairs inside. He presses his lips first against Jack's cheek and then, when Jack doesn't shy away, his lips. Jack sighs his approval. He opens his mouth wider, runs the tip of his tongue across his lips. Pauses. _It's your turn, Mark._

He tastes Jack's tongue, the inside of his cheek, and they're the same.

With one hand he strokes Jack's jaw; with the other he anchors himself, rests it lightly on his hip. It's not there for long. They're still kissing - tongues tangling, soft and easy - when Jack picks up his hand and puts it down his unbuttoned and unzipped jeans. ( _When did that happen?_ ) His fingers brush against wet, and his knees wobble. He whimpers and sways closer, wreathes steadying fingers in Jack's hair. Jack doesn't stop kissing him, but he can feel his mouth change shape, how the corners turn up ever so slightly.

Jack peels him out of his clothes - his jacket and hoodie, his long sleeve shirt and undershirt; his boots and socks and jeans and underwear - savoring it, taking his time. He nibbles, bites into him like he's a firm, juicy orange that he wants to taste every bit of. Jack must have heard what he was thinking, back at the diner. He settles him on the edge of the oatmeal recliner and sinks to his knees, between his spread legs. He licks up and down his dick - warming it up, a popsicle straight from the freezer - before he sucks it into his mouth. He can't stop touching Jack's face, his hair. He keeps trying to tuck it behind his ears, so he can watch, and Jack won't stop _smiling_.

They make it into the shower. He drapes Jack along his front, head against his shoulder, lips on his throat; moves against him in time with his soapy hand. He worries his neck with his teeth, and Jack bucks and sighs. "Please, Mark. Please."

"That was nice. Very high school, but nice."

"I forgot what a player you were. In high school." He says it with a soft elbow to the ribs, to show he didn't mean it.

They make it (halfway) onto the bed. He works his way down, vertebra by vertebra, until his lips touch the dip in Jack's spine, the flat curve of his ass.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to. Is that ok?”

He fucks him - deliberately, thoroughly - with his fingers, with his tongue. Until Jack's quiet and shaking, until he comes without a sound.

They make it to the tomato rug. He pushes in by centimeters. (“It feels good, stop asking.") All around him he feels nothing but sticky moist heat, and Jack's so very tight tight tight. He takes a deep breath. (Astroglide. Ivory. Weed. Jack. Incense?) Talks to himself. ( _Go slow_.) He rocks forward. Jack’s dick paints a stripe below his belly button.

Now Jack’s pushing back, won’t stop with the breathy instructions. (“Harder. There, right there. Like that, just like that. Wait, I’m gonna. Ok. Faster.”) Now the only sound he hears is the drumming of blood in his ears. Jack twists him around and around. Until he can’t go any further. He’s balanced on the head of a pin. Jack runs a finger along the back of his dick, touches the spot where they meet - not hard, barely a suggestion - and the world goes still. He uncoils with a full body shudder, an ecstatic, unhinged moan, and Jack (“I lov…”) pulses beneath him.

“I liked that, that noise you made.”

“What? Shut up.” But he’s smiling.

Jack's knee is between his legs, he's holding his hand. The room's awash in milky blue, metallic light. Through a caul of frost the snow twists and turns, darts in all directions at once. Jack drowsily mumbles. "Tomorrow, when you least expect it, I'm going to nail you with the biggest snowball. In the face." He falls asleep in muffled, underwater quiet, like his ears have been stuffed with cotton. 

Sunday afternoon, but it might as well be midnight. They pull into the truck stop on the other side of the highway.

Jack waits with him while he smokes a cigarette, breath pearling, mingling with his acrid exhalations. There's a wedge of moon. Now framed between backlit clouds, now rising past them. Like you'd see in a movie.

The bus starts up. "You getting on, son?"

“Christmas is coming up.”

“You aren’t wrong.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Not much.”

“You can come down, if you want. It’ll be boring, just me and Mom, but…”

“That sounds good. I'd like that.”

“I'd better get home and clean up. So Mom doesn’t think I had a couple of rent boys over while she was gone.”

“What? Shut up.” And he’s smiling.

******

“I knew you were gay.”

“What?”

"Don't play dumb with me. _Jack_. You're suddenly too busy with work to spend time with me, and when we do, you're weird. You won't even tell me how you spent Christmas. You're seeing him again, aren't you? But you don't have the decency to break up with me. I have to show up at your place - unannounced, so you don't have time to hide - and do it for you.”

He misses the point.

“That doesn’t make me gay.”

She blinks at him in mock agreement. “Fine. That makes you bi. Totally different.”

“It’s not like that. It's only him. I'd never be with another guy...” He trails off. He’s never said it before. Out loud, to someone else. Not even Sarah. Adrenaline flows, rushes, surges through him, tip to toes. It clears his head, fills his heart. He wants to elaborate. _I tried not to. That’s why I’m here. I wouldn’t do this if I had a choice. You should meet him, then you’d understand._

"You won't tell everyone." 

She tosses her head.

"Not all of us are as spineless as you are. Isn't lying, always trying to have it both ways, exhausting? It can't possibly be worth it."

It makes him angry, to hear her judge him. What the hell does she know about him? What he has to deal with, every single fucking day?

He points out that it's easy for her to be self-righteous. All her expenses are paid. Her biggest worry is her GPA. Has she shoplifted her dinner? Picked up free food from a pantry? Spent nights sleeping in her car? Because he has. Is she scared that someone will fire her, kick her out of the house, beat the shit out of her because she's with the wrong person (because she's a fag)? Is she scared she'll end up homeless and begging for spare change; homeless and fucking people for money? Because he is. Some of the things he's scared of have already happened to him. Would she like to hear about it?

He works up a good head of steam. He says what he hasn't said to anyone for months, for years. Ever. What he only thinks about at two in the morning, but then he clamps his eyes shut and sings himself to sleep and he doesn't have to think about it until the next time.

Each time she tries to interrupt him he raises his voice and continues talking. He says it faster, adds details, gives it more feeling. Arms crossed, eyes snapping, she lets him talk until he's done.

She keeps it short.

"All that weed you smoke is making you paranoid. If you lose your job, your place, that's on you. I'd never get you fired. Don't stick that on me, when all I've done for months is put up with your wobbly, hot and cold bullshit." She pokes a furious finger in the dead center of his chest. It doesn't convey enough, so she replaces it with a hard, flat hand, uses it to give him a shove, one firm enough to set him back on his heels. She spits at him. "Have you forgotten how hard I worked since I was a kid, everything I gave up, only to have it all taken away from me? That you're not the only one with problems? You don't know me at all, do you?"

Maybe he doesn't.

He bites his tongue. It comes out anyway.

“I’m really sorry.”

She doesn't believe him.

********

He's meandering back from one of his Sunday afternoon jaunts and passes a construction dumpster; takes a clumsy dive. On the way down he bruises his shins and stabs his hand on a nail. (Prompting him to ask: _When was my last tetanus booster?_ )

It was worth it. He finds a couple of pieces of wood with potential, hefts them onto the sidewalk and hauls them home.

He locates some wax and polishes the table, admires the square legs and how everything fits together...pretty well. He centers it below his window. Under one of the legs he places a matchbook. On top of the table he arranges his tin of weed, his copy of _Dune_ , his drawing notebook and a rubber-banded bundle of pens and pencils. A few cassettes, his tape player and a lighter.

He roughs out a sketch. So he can show it to Jack, the next time he sees him.

******** 

In February he buys another postcard. He learns the official state bird is the Eastern Bluebird. _You busy the second weekend in March?_

Mark calls and leaves a message. "Not busy. See you then. If I'm lucky you won't need to pick me up at the bus station."

Nine months and one week after he leaves, Mark gets a ride down for the weekend, is dropped off at the house late on a Friday. Since his Christmas visit he’s cut his hair, short back and sides but still long on top. It’s slicked back; it looks good. He’s irrationally, stupidly irritated Mark didn’t ask for his opinion before he did it.

Mark snags his fingers in his belt loops and pulls him close. Kisses him on the cheek. On the mouth. He praises Mom’s lasagna, tells her one day he’ll make her new countertops – butcher block, nicely sealed, the whole nine yards. She looks both charmed and dubious at the prospect. As she should.

Mark showers and walks into the bedroom, a threadbare _Empire Strikes Back_ towel tucked around his waist, knobby knees on full display. He steps between his legs and wraps his arms tight around his middle, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “I missed you.” Jack "hmmms" in agreement. Mark doesn't release him, so he reciprocates: circles his arms loose, hooks his thumbs inside the towel, just above his crack. The thought comes, unbidden. _MarkMarkMarkMarkMark_.

He's half hard, well on his way to doing better than that, when Mark pulls away and surveys the room. “Where’s the bunk bed?”

All he wants to do is to lower Mark onto the sheets. Work him over with fingers and lips and tongue until he's forgotten how to speak, then fuck him until his brain leaks out his ears. (Razor the thinnest line over his nipple and suck the blood that blooms in the cut; slice him sternum to pelvis, crawl inside and never come out; point out that he hasn't been in his room in months and life goes on, even if he's not around to see it.) Before he can do any of it, though, he must get through this chatty ceremony, still par for the course. The ritual they're obligated to go through before Mark allows himself what he wants. He used to think of it as pretense. These days, he views it as a chance to get reacquainted. Foreplay, even.

“It was time for an upgrade. There’s always someone at school who’s leaving town, who’ll practically pay you to take their furniture off their hands.” 

“And your own computer. Look at you, moving up in the world."

“Since I’m spending money I don’t have, I got a modem too. Plus, a few games we can try out tomorrow. Not new ones, but they're good.”

“Sweet. I am never going to email you.”

“I know.” He’s never mentioned by name anyone from the nearly dozen places he lived before moving to Shit Town. Jack tries to picture him sitting at a computer, pecking away at the keys. Composing a message. Keeping in touch. 

“I see you got a tattoo.”

“Mmmm…” he twists his arm toward him. “A couple weeks ago. Pretty awesome, right?”

It’s an Asian inspired demon, reminiscent of stuff Mark’s drawn and hung on his wall. Lewd tongue, bulging eyes, suggestive horns and strategically placed female parts. Very colorful. Very heterosexual.

“Right.” He removes the towel and walks Mark to the bed. Enough foreplay.

Mark plants his head on his chest, drapes an arm over him and is out.

His limbs are heavy, body satiated. He’s replete with familiar smells and sounds, the warmth generated by sweat dampened skin against skin. They push sleep away. He meditates. Syncs up their breathing and pets Mark’s ear. Runs a palm up and down the unfamiliar expanse of neck now available to him, against buzzed hair that feels like the skin of a peach. Runs a gentle finger along the design that's been punched into his upper arm, across skin that in brighter light is dusted pink around the edges. The skin at the top of an apricot.

Mark sighs and dryly coughs. Half wakes up and laces a leg around his, presses into his hip. Wakes up and hoarsely whispers _Jack_. Tugs his hair and throbs in his mouth. The crows are talking to each other in the indigo dawn when he finally sinks into the mattress and floats.

Sunday post-lunch. They’re spread out on the living room floor playing _World Series Baseball_. Mark tells him he has to stop by a bar to say hi to some former co-workers.

“You should come with me, meet them. It’ll be fun.”

The space in which their two social circles overlap is narrow and well-defined. Her name is Sarah (currently in New York, home any day for Easter break.) Mark has his people and he, to his everlasting surprise, has found a few of his own. People who know who he is, what he is, and still like him. He’s comfortable with this separation, and doesn’t see any reason to change it. Introducing new variables threatens to upset the equilibrium they’ve established. Hesitantly, painfully. Yet again. Mark should realize this.

Jack’s playing as the Red Sox and can’t reply. He doesn't suck and for ten minutes doesn’t need to reply. Until Mark abruptly elbows the controller from his hand.

“My turn. Unlike you, I can walk and chew gum.”   

"Mo Vaughn's at the plate!"

Mark doesn't dignify his protest with a reply.

He crawls onto the sofa: one leg over the arm, the other close to the edge, so he can rest his knee on Mark's rounded back, feel his muscles flex against it. He crooks an elbow over his eyes. Tries, and fails, not to pout.

”Didja see that? I beat out a bunt. This game is too fucking easy. I’m gonna load up the bases and smack the shit out of the ball.”

“Why do you want to hang out with them anyway? All you used to do was bitch about how boring and ignorant they were.”

“They talk a lot, but they’re not so bad. And it’s good to stay in touch. How do you think I got my new, better job?”

“Which reminds me. I’ve got my own work to worry about.”

“You just finished a big test, didn’t you? You need a break.”

“But I lost my fake ID.”

“They’ll let you in. If you wear your big boy jeans, they might even serve you a beer.”

"I have to be at the hospital tomorrow morning. Early."

"It's not like we'll be getting wasted with them."

Paul O'Neill hits a grand slam. Mark yodels with satisfaction.

“It’s my turn to make dinner tonight?”

“You've got to be fucking kidding me.” Through their exchange he's been focused on the screen, too preoccupied, even as he's talking to him, to pay much mind. Side retired, Mark turns, sighs impatiently and pushes his arm off his face.

"What's up?"

He tries not to sulk. And fails.

"It's not like I know them. Won't it be weird if I sh..."

“I knew it!" Mark interrupts him, a smug cat smile stretched ear to ear. His tongue lolls as he crows. "You pussy. You're scared. Admit it! You're nervous about meeting some _real men_.”

“No, fuck you. But you're leaving tomorrow night, right after you got here. Why do I have to sit around bullshitting with guys I don’t know about pouring concrete or tiling a backsplash. Or football or cars or how unfair it is that women aren’t eternally grateful for the opportunity to shut up and suck dick."

"Is that what you think I'm like when you're not around? An asshole?"

"Why do you care so much anyway?”

“I don't. But you really need to get out more. Last time I was here, someone asked me if Karen’s your girlfriend.”

“Fuck off, that is not true."

********

So he goes. Unsure what to expect, he envisions stretched out barrel chested bass burps and big bellies barely contained by shirts. Heavy, sweaty brows and peanut shells thrown at the TV. Six beers in displays of manhood.

The bar's like every other one around here. Dim and close, stale and sticky, beer and a shot. Small town sad. It smells like Sunday evening - tobacco and fried chicken and disappointment. On each of the three TVs the game is blaring. Around a table in the middle of the room is a group ranging in age from mid-twenties to...forty? Not as old as his mom. 

The first one he notices is center stage and positive he's in charge: not short, not tall; not fat, not thin. A very straight back. A bland, unassuming face that shines with the knowledge that all the good things that happen in his life are the result of _honest work_. When he sees him he frowns and trains too serious eyes on Mark. There are a couple of generic lumberjack types: red flannel and tidy beard, green flannel and clean shaven. There’s a rangy, olive skinned guy. Extremely good looking. At least ten years older than him and ninety percent straight.

They smile at Mark and seem genuinely happy to see him; do everything but scritch his stomach and give him a big, slobbery kiss. _What a good boy you are, what a good boy._   Mark preens and jokes, enjoying the attention. He tries not to laugh, only partly from relief. What a fucking poser, a different face for everyone.  

They shuffle around so he and Mark can have the middle seats: pride of place (nowhere to hide). Jack admires baby pictures, school pictures, hockey pictures. He sips from his pint and eats spicy buffalo wings; listens to them talk shop, sports, and politics. 

The conversation quickly moves over and around him. He doesn't mind. These days he spends less time looking at his feet, trying not to trip. But it - this - still feels like work. Nod and smile, keep it light, pretend you're in agreement with the person next to you who won't shut the fuck up. They don’t need or want his opinion on how hard it is to file permits in Albany; the importance of welfare reform; how Hillary killed Vince Foster and where she keeps Clinton’s balls; whether Ewing can be considered one of the greats if he never wins a championship. 

Jack studies the table top graffiti, the drinkers in his line of sight. He eyes the last wing, an especially plump, sticky looking one. Would it be rude to take it?

He’s sucking ranch dressing off his well dipped wing when the air around him softens, deadens, stills. Suddenly, he can hear the play by play. He raises his eyes but keeps his chin low and tucked. Everyone is staring at him. With anticipation. Except Mark, whose shoulders are set and eyes are focused in between. In anticipation.

“We were asking Mark what you do. He said you’re a college boy.” 

He swallows. Puts down his wing, tears open a two by two envelope, opens up the square of wet paper and methodically wipes his mouth and hands.  “I am.” The corners of his mouth turn up in a weak, ingratiating grin.

“For what?”

He's tempted to say EMT.

“To be a nurse.”

"Ha! No, seriously."

"I'm not kidding."

They make the usual jokes – albeit in a marginally friendlier, more light-hearted fashion than he’s used to. Positive what they’ve said is funny and original (no and no); confident he cares what they think (no). He has to explain his reasoning without sounding defensive. Which he can't do, of course, because he still doesn't know whether he's made the right decision. He'll know more in a couple of years. After he's put many, many miles between him and home. After he hasn't crawled back home in defeat. 

"It's a good way to meet cute girls."

"Medical school's really expensive. Plus, it takes years to finish, and who has that kind of time?"

"You know what's a really weird job for a guy to have? Elementary school teacher."

He doesn't say any of it. Not today at least. He's not in the mood. He has his pride. He refuses to say it while Mark's three feet away from him. It was Mark's idea to bring him here. Let him deal with the consequences.

His story gets their gears turning. He watches them clank and grind. 

They exchange knowing looks, waggle their eyebrows. Jack knows that until he leaves they’ll watch his every move to see if they can catch him dropping his wrist or lisping. Or hitting on them. He grits his teeth, ignores the jagged spike of hormones that make him all too aware of his heart's proximity to his ribs, how forcefully it's beating. His face settles into its default mode: friendly, dull confidence. _Nothing to see here._

Not quite as one, but awfully close to it, they turn their attention to Mark. Who's looking unnecessarily belligerent considering he's not the center of their jokes. Who's taken out his pocket knife and is digging more grooves into the scarred tabletop. 

Mark's surprised at the turn the evening has taken. He shouldn't be.

What Mark forgets, over and over, is that when feels strongly about anything, good or bad, he can't keep it to himself. He's compelled to spread the word. Why talk about boring shit when he could blow your mind with the truth. Baseball, chess, southern hip hop, big cities in general and New York City in particular; the worthlessness of our educational system, the criminality of all politicians, and why it's not just practical, but ethical to legalize drugs. There's also the case for atheism, the stingy hypocrisy of small towns and the brilliance of Japanese cartoons; the banality of Mike Taylor's skating, the genius of _Dune_ , the fun that is learning to fix his very own piece of crap car. And don't forget, though it's been a while, why asshole dads should be shot - or at least jailed - and their kids emancipated and given a stipend. 

Can you guess what's at the top of the list of Things Mark’s Into And Here's Why?

Courtesy of Mark, the entire table is well aware when he lived in town - no girlfriend in sight for more than a year - he spent many days, and more than a few nights, with his _good friend_ Jack. That this isn't the first time he's come back to town solely to see his _good friend_ Jack. That he spent his Christmas break with his _good friend_ Jack. 

Add to this a few minutes of conversation with _good friend Jack_ , and they’re drawing conclusions that are bullshit and stereotypical. Though in this case they’re not. Generally speaking. 

The beardy, red flannel one, who has spent the last hour reflexively agreeing with everyone, no matter that they're contradicting each other, jumps in with an original inquiry. "You haven't told us much about what you do for fun up there, Mark. What're the girls like?"

In the face of a direct question Mark shuts down. He fiddles with his knife and grunts, ambiguously. "Ehhhh." His jaw works overtime. His eyes are like a bird’s - bright-dark, flat and empty. They see, but who knows what, if anything, they're transmitting upstairs.

He should help Mark out. Butt into the conversation and explain what he does for fun. Stand up and ask if anyone wants another round. 

But, like Mark, he's paralyzed. His perspective's gone wonky. The people surrounding him - as they jostle his elbows and bump his knees, as their voices rattle and boom and dampen his palms - are miniature, miles away. He's looking at them from the wrong end of binoculars.

Mark drops the knife and slouches against his chair. He scans the group, defensive half-smile pasted on, stagily unimpressed with what he sees, before settling his gaze on the intense one with good posture.

He has a name, but Jack prefers to think of him as Not Tom. Even someone like him, who wants to be left alone under his favorite tree to smell the flowers, is familiar with this type. Knows that he envisions himself a _mentor_ and a _caring adult_ , believes it's his responsibility to help Mark _realize his potential_. That he got Mark his _new, better_ job to help him do just this.

If it meant Mark had to leave town, become someone else's problem to deal with? Even better.

Mark graces Not Tom with an almost genuine smile. He says, almost politely, “You shouldn't give him a hard time. He’s going to have steady work. Benefits and a pension.” Then he ruins it by snorting, by asking dismissively “You joined a union while I was out of town?”

“Got a girlfriend back home?” Not Tom isn’t so easily distracted.

Jack, in the spirit of their agreement, has expanded his sexual experience beyond his two closest friends, has figured out how and where to graduate from a drunken one-night stand. The encounters have run the gamut: weed hazy, walking away swiftly after things turned weird, reasonably satisfying, depressingly awkward, Jesus fucking Christ mind blowing. That one, naturally, never repeated itself.

He's not sure what Mark’s been up to. They’ve promised to use condoms, to be safe. To discuss it as little as possible. 

Mark shakes his head. "Nah. I’m busy. Working.”

He waits for the excuses. The girls are uptight, ugly as sin, bad in bed. Instead, Mark looks at him across a scatter of pint and shot glasses, a twisted heap of chicken bones, and smiles, like they're the only two people in the room, recalling a moment no one else understands and never will. He blinks vacantly. His jaw hangs loose as he scrambles to interpret. When he grasps it, he can feel it: his face softening, how he's mirroring Mark's expression.

The guy on his left mutters something rude. The guy on his right barks a snide laugh. Not Tom stares at Mark like he let out a huge fart during church and refused to apologize for it.

Yes, he looks disturbed and disgusted that Mark would do that. He didn't know he had it in him to be so gauche - so gross. 

But he doesn’t look like he wants to beat him to a bloody pulp for doing it.

God does take pity on useless twenty year old boys. Somebody scores - a Ranger, a Shark. He doesn't know, he doesn't care. The moment passes, the subject changes. He has another beer and lets himself be drawn into conversation. Not Tom continues to look dejected and disappointed. The rest of them continue to smirk and drop barbed remarks. But no one seems particularly interested in learning more about Mark’s sex life, or his career choices. 

In Jack's book, this counts as a successful night out.

He's still careful to take a piss when no one else from their table is in the bathroom. He doesn't want to push his luck. 

******** 

“That was fun.”

On the way home Mark’s aggressively giddy, insists on driving his car. He bounces his shoulders in time to the bass; sings along to a song rapped so fast he can hardly understand the words beyond the chorus ( _Two dope boys in a Cadillac._ Really?)

It’s twenty five degrees outside, but Mark rolls down the windows and blasts the heater. Trumpets his music loud enough to ensure that every driver, pedestrian and homeowner taking out the trash can share in his triumph. That he successfully got away with something he won't give up, but is scared he’ll get in serious trouble for if caught with.

They drive too fast through dark streets flecked with black ice. Mark has one hand on the wheel, the other high up his leg. Each time they shimmy to a stop he shifts his hand to palm him tightly through his jeans. Jack spreads his legs as wide as he can. It’s not enough.

Mark can’t start this shit, then choke off a laugh, shrill and nervous, when he unzips and pulls himself out. When, oblivious to anyone who might pull up alongside them, he places Mark's first two fingers on his sweet spot and layers his own on top for good measure.

They’ve barely turned into the driveway, put the car in park, and Mark’s clambering into his lap, boots banging against his shins, knees digging into his quads, hands fisting his ears to maintain balance. He cranks the seat back and rests his full weight on him, the coarse seam of his jeans chafes his exposed dick.

It’s painful. It hurts just the way he likes. Frigid air continues to flow through the open windows. It's of no consequence because heat - thick and syrupy, sweet and saturating - has made its way from his dick to the very tips of his hair. Mark shifts closer, lips smiling against his throat, and hums. He can hear their heartbeats, keeping three two time.  

Is this Mark’s version of coming out? A stealth indicator that as he’s gained more control over his life, as he’s got a new better job and put a hundred and fifty miles (three hours by car, five hours by bus) between himself and the boy who loves him (who fucks him), he’s become less afraid? (Of what? Any number of things: himself; Jack; his past, present and future. _The guys_ , this town, the world.)

He should ask, but he needs more, needs more right now. The few minutes of...whatever that was, Mark's reaction to them, have his entire body vibrating at a previously unknown frequency.  He's reeling: from the joint they smoked in the parking lot; the music (he fucking hates rap when will Mark stop subjecting him to it); the friction; the brown sugar smell that means something in the engine is leaking and they should really get that checked out.

He pulls himself together long enough to demand. “What the fuck was that?”

Mark tilts his head and kisses his cheek, sweet and dry. A car motors by and for a moment they're lit up like they’re onstage. Mark doesn't pull away. He wriggles a hand between them and lazily pumps him - one, two, three. 

“Beer.” He licks shallowly into his mouth - four, five, six. “Wasn’t it nice to be out,” he lightly swipes his tongue across his - seven, eight, "drinking some?” 

And he's moaning. He’s whining. He’s back on that rotting sofa: seventeen, impossibly hard, drowning in love. Completely at Mark’s mercy and glorying in it. Any second he's going to grab his ass and mindlessly rut against him until he finds release.

"Stop torturing me and do something. Now. Please. I'm begging you." 

Mark bites the shell of his ear, snickers into it. “I told you they weren’t so bad.”

 


	14. Sweet, Bitter

Her first real memory of being in New York City – one that’s not watery and impressionistic but fleshy, detailed - she's eight, possibly nine. She's on the subway, in a four seater near the conductor's cubby, sandwiched between Mom and Dad. It's late afternoon and rush hour is well under way; they're heading north (or south), stopping at Times Square (or Union Square). At each station many, many more people elbow their way into the car than shove their way out. Passengers unapologetically bump their knees against hers, rest shopping bags on her toes. Ingressors can't access the overhead poles. It doesn't matter; they're buoyed by everyone around them. She is the bottom sardine in a can of them.

The train squeals to a halt between stations. She plugs her ears, but still hears it in her molars. The crowd grumbles. It shifts and stamps, then settles. Like horses when you’re moving them into the stable. The train doesn't move for what's at most five minutes, but she's eight (or nine). It feels like hours. The lull reminds her she's hundreds of feet underground (she eventually learns this isn’t true; that the tunnels are so close to the surface she can hear the knife sharpening, nails on chalkboard, metal-on-metal awfulness of wheels on rails from her sixth floor bedroom.)

As she sits, she’s painfully aware of the heat being pumped into the car. The restive, pungent bodies. The itchiness of her best winter coat, red cashmere and gleaming, anchor stamped gold buttons. It's an itchiness that penetrates her sweater, an itchiness she can’t escape because there's not an inch of space in which to wriggle out of her coat. She starts to breathe hard and fast, to twitch and bite her nails. Then Mom hooks their pinky fingers together (because she’s eight or nine; far too old to hold hands in public). Dad pats her arm. Dad says "Don’t worry, pumpkin, it won't be a problem getting off. They leave the doors open for a long time." Mom says "Do you want some water? You're burning up. Give me your hat and scarf at least." 

She hands them off, relaxes enough to be bored, to unabashedly stare at the people surrounding her. Under the unforgiving white lights of the car everyone looks wan and heavy-shouldered, on the verge of a cold. Using what few reserves of energy they have to remain upright.

As she looks carefully at each face, so many different from the ones at home, so many similar to hers, she notices no one is looking back at her. No, that’s not accurate. People are looking at her, a bright red boat becalmed in a sea of navy, gray and black. But they're doing it in a detached, emotionless way. Because she's there, a safe place to rest eyes weary of reading the subway advertisements they've read a thousand times before today.

She notices no one's looking at her with  _that_  expression: pity and curiosity and churchy smugness mixed together in a complacent, calculated smile.  _Your mom didn_ _’t want you, but aren’t you lucky these nice white folks did_. Basking in the reflected glow of her parents’  _good deed_.

That disinterest overrode the rest - the loud and smelly, crowded and dirty, angry and rude and hot. The opposite of home. Home, where it's clean, quiet and everyone who stares at you believes they have a right to do so because they not only know you, but care about you. Home, where by early elementary school she was acutely aware that most people judge you by how you look and who your parents are (how much money they have, what color their skin is), and are too lazy and ignorant to go beyond that. Where by middle elementary school her philosophy was that being wary of other’s intentions – being unsurprised when they fail you – aren’t measures of neurosis and low expectations, but common fucking sense. 

It might have been that day. It might have been another day, another year close on the heels of that one. For as long as she’s asked herself  _what comes next?_  the answer has been _here_.

 _Here_  she'll feel good. Overwhelmed at times by how hard it will be to get the simplest things done. But it'll be worth it because  _here_  she'll feel comfortable.  _Here_ , she'll feel like herself. Her true self, not the well-behaved, sweet voiced, good girl she is at home.  _Here_  she'll be free, not constrained. Like when she was at math camp or horse camp, back when she let herself go to math camp and horse camp. There, she was with her people, people who shared the same nerdy obsessions as her and liked her for them; didn’t hold them against her, didn’t see them as a reason to put another check in the  _Sarah tries so hard but isn’t like us, can’t be like us_  column. But in this case her tribe will be a whole city, and belonging can last longer than a few weeks. It can be forever.

In preparation, she read not once, but multiple times all the books: Arbus and Goldin and Mark and Wright;  _Franny and Zooey_ ,  _Jazz_  and  _American Psycho_  (don’t judge).  _Harriet the Spy, Breakfast at Tiffany_ _’s_  and  _From the Mixed up Files of Mrs. Basil Frankweiler_. She’s seen all the movies:  _Annie Hall_ , _The French Connection and Saturday Night Fever. The Thin Man_ , _Kids_ and every Spike Lee Joint.

In preparation, since middle school she’s spent weekends with her Aunt Carol, her mom’s zany (crazy) best friend who lives in the Village in a studio apartment; in her forties and chipping away at her PhD, twelve years and counting. She's dealt with Carol's rotating series of wacky (crazy) roommates: their stinky cigarettes, pretentious conversations and unsubtle jokes about suburban girls let loose in the big city; how they hope the brown mouse doesn't wet her panties when she's in Washington Square Park and sees people doing drugs, or fighting over a couple of scrap filled trash-bags.

In preparation, years ago she didn’t simply accept, she embraced, reality. That in order to get here she must remain focused, ever mindful that there’s life - a better life - beyond high school, beyond Shit Town, and that to have this life there are hoops she’ll need to jump through. Perspective she’ll need to maintain. She can stray, but not too far. She can be rebellious, but not outrageous.

That’s the theory. The practice? Booze and weed, but never too much. She tends to be the designated driver, so constraint is built in. Skipping school, but not neglecting her work when she gets home. Watching other people commit non-violent, non-weed related felonies, but not being tempted to join in. Speaking her mind, but not in ways that can be described as threatening or aggressive. She doesn't want to be written off as a crank (a bitch). Sex, but always remembering to use protection, to do it with the right guy at the right time. Then ruefully and thoughtfully reconsidering her decision when the right guy turns out to be eighteen going on forty, majors in Economics, and has a short term life goal of being accepted by an eating club – preferably Cap because at Cottage they _party too hard_.

The rules she set for herself paid off. She made it here. Granted, she’s here in the most bougie way possible, as a Freshman at Columbia. With its manicured lawns, gated campus and constant push to take over Harlem as far from bohemian as you can get without being stuck on the Upper East Side. She’s not in the Chelsea Hotel. Or in a squat in the East Village or Dumbo. But it’s 1996. The East Village is expensive. Dumbo is expensive. And she really doesn’t want to live in Queens.

The specifics don't matter, though, because she’s made it. Everything from here on out will be good. She has found her place, her people. If she stands out (her looks, her brains, her pragmatism, her family) it's in a way that's admired. Her life is - finally - beginning. High school? Is over.

So you can't blame her for being disappointed and, well, angry, when for the first time she hears:

“Are you on the basketball team? No? Well, what sport do you play? That's why you're here, right?”

_Then:_

“Your hair is  _uh-maze-ing_. Can I touch it?”

  _Of course there's:_

“I don’t think of you as being black. To me, you’re just Sarah.”

_And let’s not forget:_

“I didn’t even know black people - or should I say African-American? Anyway, I didn’t know you could be Jewish. Is that allowed?”

_And last but hardly least:_

You don’t have, y’know, an accent. Where are you from?

There’s plenty she’s leaving out (all the As: affirmative action, adoption, angry black girl). But you get the point.

She wasn’t supposed to hear this at college _here_. It's a major reason she didn’t go to Boston. Or Philadelphia. Or Duke!

Apparently, clueless people are everywhere. (She tells her mom what she's learned, and during the moment of _I told you so_ silence that precedes "I'm sorry, pumpkin pie," a little piece of her dies.)

What's worse than hearing these statements? People's reactions to her reactions to these statements.

"Oh Sarah, you take everything so seriously. I was just kidding."

"You’re awfully PC. We're all on your side here."

"You've got to stop overthinking these things."

What’s worse than someone knowing they’ve said something stupid and continuing to blow her off? Someone who, even after she’s politely, carefully and simply explained why what they said sucks - "I'm five feet, three inches tall. The shortest point guard, even here with its terrible basketball team, is five feet, seven inches tall. What made you think I played?" - still doesn’t get it one bit.

The most venomous remarks drip from the fangs of strangers; but in her time she’s heard many more sympathetically moronic remarks than straight out white supremacist racist. A good percentage of the former come from people she knows; a certain percentage, larger than she'd like, come from people she’s friendly, even friends, with.

Apparently, it's harder to abandon being a well-behaved, sweet-voiced, good girl than she thought it would be. Because she gets angry, but has yet to really lay into anyone. She’s working up to it. One day, hopefully soon, she’ll get there.

 

******** 

 

She and Jack are still friends; they stay in touch. As much as it’s possible to stay in touch with a boy. It’s not like they chat on the phone. She had to give up on that up back in Shit Town.

Email, fortunately, has benefits beyond forcing apathetic TAs do their jobs and avoiding direct conversations with her parents.

 **To:** srr1001@columbia.edu

 **From:** jstephenson@fnysns.edu

 **Date:** Mon, Jun 30, 1997, 1:47 AM 

**Subject:**

Hey Sarah,

You around the end of July? I’ll be there. Probably Mark too. Will be staying at a hostel near Columbia that’s no joke 15 bucks a night. Would be great to see you.

Jack

 

 **To:** jstephenson@fnysns.edu

 **From:** srr1001@columbia.edu

 **Date:** Mon, Jun 30, 1997, 8:59 AM 

**Subject:** Re: **YOU MUST ABSOLUTELY STAY WITH ME**

 Jack!!!

Fuck that shit. You MUST stay with me. I’m subletting an APARTMENT for the summer. Prettier (and more private) than a hostel. Also. ZERO dollars. You can have my room. I INSIST. I know the two of you don’t get many chances to see each other these days.

SO EXCITED TO SEE YOU!!!! (Send me deets) 

Xoxoxox,

Sarah

 

********

 

_Friday_

She gives them a tour of the apartment. Time killed: forty-five seconds. Yes, it’s her own place, at least for a few more weeks, until she heads back to the dorms for her Sophomore year. It’s also five hundred twenty-five square feet, including the closets and the bathroom. This  _is_  Manhattan.

They sit in a loose triangle on the living/dining room floor, on the strongly patterned, vaguely African, sound and dirt absorbing rug. The clickety-clack of the briskly rotating ceiling fan, the rattle and hum from the window AC make the silence less obvious than it would otherwise be.

She has cleared four days to show them around and hang out. To be together as much as possible.

Which might not have been one of her smartest ideas? It’s great to see them, that’s not an issue; it’s been months, though, since all three of them were together. People change. They’re each on a different path. Dinner and a movie, or drinks in an extremely loud bar might have sufficed?  

They’ve both got short hair. She can ask about that.

“If you’re a guy working in a hospital, it’s an unofficial official no-no to have long hair. Also, a ponytail…doesn’t suit me.”

That makes sense.

“I got tired of looking like a grunge band reject. It’s been years since I’ve listened to that shit.”

Nod, nod, nod.

Is it too soon to roust them from the apartment and show them the neighborhood?

She’s about to suggest they take a walk when Mark rolls a joint and, as he’s in the process of lighting it, asks: “Can we smoke in here?”

Jack wonders how she scored such a sweet place. “And what’s with the massive church across the street? Looks like something out of  _The Crow_.”     

She bought some good summer music. She should play it.

Ten minutes later she’s lounging between the two of them, head in one lap, feet in the other. She's making plans. She's wondering what made her believe Jack would stop being Jack, would stop living on his serene blue planet where he takes everything in stride – or at least pretends to. And how could she think that Mark would stop being Mark, would be anywhere other than on his roiling red planet where if he doesn’t keep moving, keep shaking things up, something bad (or good) might happen to him?

What is she, you ask? She’d like to think her planet is black – strong, charismatic and rebellious; a little formidable, a lot  _I don_ _’t give a fuck_. A place for her, for Harriet and Patti Smith. Sula Peace and Lyra.

But it is, in fact, green. Practical (so fucking practical) and harmonious. Loyal to a fault. Materialistic and attached to family. Compassionate and girly and fresh. She shares her planet with Nel Wright and Meg March, the dead, unsaved sister from the Narnia books and all the “heroines” of George Eliot novels.

Bah.

“What’s this? It’s so  _smoove._ ”

“Erykah Badu. Admit it, it’s sexy as hell.” 

“I admit nothing. Except it’s going to put me to sleep.”

“Mark, you have no soul. Jack, tell him.”

"Ignore him." He smiles serenely at Mark, only a flash - she can't swear she saw it - of something deeper. "He’s only satisfied when he’s in control of the music.”

“Biggie! I’ve got some right here.”

“It’s very sad that he’s dead. No.”

She might hand out wine coolers, play some old school Prince and make them dance with her, because how can you not dance to  _Girls and Boys_. But that would be telling, and she swore she wouldn’t.

 

_Saturday_

Even Mark, with his perpetual hard-on for the city, can be coaxed on a face melting late July day to go to the beach.

They’re ambitious. Wake up early and drive to the tip of Long Island, last stop, nowhere to go except straight into the Atlantic Ocean. Look left, look right: nothing to see but miles and miles of warm, creamy sand. 

The sandbar stretches far out into the water. She teeters across a bricolage of shells, kelp and pebbles, emits dolphin squeaks each time something she can't identify through the iridescent depths squiggles against her legs.

After a few hundred feet her toes take flight. She floats, bobbing up and over the slow rolling waves. She moves close to where the waves break and body surfs them to the shore. Poorly times a duck dive; gets a lung full of water and a bikini bottom full of sand; spends the next few hours pretending she's not wearing a loaded diaper. She sees a shark - a baby sand shark - a few feet away from her, minding its own business, but maintains her cool, doesn’t create her own personal  _Jaws_  moment.

Their day ends on a dock. They sit - salt coating their tongues and eyelashes, sand exfoliating the skin between their toes - and watch the sun being dragged off to bed: protesting, running its grubby fingers along the dome of sky, leaving candy colored streaks of hibiscus, lavender, tangerine, and iris in its wake. They gorge on mussels and French fries, fried oysters and shrimp, clams dunked in a gallon of liquid butter. She is made up entirely of shellfish and butter.

She’s so nostalgic for her car that she offers to drive them home. The boys sleep, and she appreciates the peace. The chance to listen to her own music without getting shit from Mark, the chance to stop discussing why one or both of them can smoke in their car while she drives.  

She remembers that she loves them. They’re the brothers she never had.

Are they slightly incestuous siblings? Sure. But that was  _ages ago_.

 

_Sunday_

The next morning, she wakes up in a…mood.

She has a beach hangover: gritty eyes, itchy scalp, sandpaper skin. She palms her arms, her legs and there’s so much heat emanating from them she could power the apartment for the day.

She has a car hangover: is bleary and out of sync, with a thick film of grease all over her that doesn’t come off in the shower, like she's just come off a red-eye. The traffic is dense here. It spills far past the city limits, severely limiting cruise control driving, not like she had that option, forget about auto-pilot. It takes concentration, and she’s out of practice.

She has a “I’ve slept for two nights on a horrendously uncomfortable, unsprung, pull-out couch” hangover. That one is self-explanatory.

They’re sitting at the tipsy, glass-topped dining-living room table. A table that's a dead giveaway that when the real owner of this place has meals at home he’s on the couch, eating directly from a box of takeout. They’re drinking coffee and fitfully debating food options. On Sunday afternoon on the Upper West Side your choices are: pizza, transposable brunches, bagels, fake Asian, or Grey’s Papaya. She’s pretending to be reasonable and open-minded, but has already made her decision. They will be eating mediocre, overpriced brunch. She’s starving - before she woke up she was in desperate need of an infusion of fatty, greasy carbs - but will stonewall Mark and Jack until they’re so hungry they settle for her choice. After all, last night they got high and conked out while she drove for more than three hours in stop and go traffic. They owe her.

She implements her plan, which requires her to do nothing more strenuous than shit all over their suggestions and slurp coffee.

“Hot dogs are gross. At any time of day.”

“I have it on good authority that the only good Indian food is in New Jersey.”

“Knishes. Please. You call those week old bricks of mashed potatoes a knish? They’re only good for playing hockey.”

“Sal and Carmine’s is overrated. The pizza is so fucking salty. And something about those guys gives me the creeps.”

“I am sick to death of egg and cheese on a roll. I always have to eat those before my eight in the morning classes, don’t have time for anything else. Whoever told me that in college you never have class until noon should be shot.”

“Don’t talk to me about cashew chicken. Tomorrow we’ll go to Pell Street and get real Chinese food.”

While she snarks, she examines them. They’re sitting as far apart from one another as you can at a round table. She bends down and takes a peek. They’re not even playing footsie.

Why has she been not sleeping on the couch? Because these two, beyond some possible eye fucking and a couple of manly shoulder hugs, have yet to seriously touch each other in her presence. Are they together? Has she incorrectly assumed? What is going on?

Mark wanders off to get dressed, and she seizes the opportunity.

“You realize we’re in New York City, right? Home of Stonewall. Christopher Street. Chelsea.”

Jack stares at her, vacantly. Like she's a teacher willing to play along with his "I'm too dense to understand what you're saying" routine.

“You couldn’t keep your hands off each other before you were together. Fucking on the down low. Or whatever it is you’re doing. What gives?”

_Oops._

She cringes. The heat has short-circuited her brain to mouth filter. She can hear her mom.  _Sarah Ruth!_ _Why do you have to be so crude?_

She’d be correct to scold her. She’s embarrassed herself. These days, they don’t see each other a lot, not frequently enough to justify this bluntness.

Damn her curiosity. Damn her discomfort with ambiguity. Damn her multiple hangovers, which have made her inordinately hangry.

He owes her an explanation.

She can hear her mom again.  _Your friends owe you kindness and understanding. If you_ _’re lucky they’ll make sure you don’t end up dead in a ditch._

She deserves an explanation? 

_No one deserves anything, Sarah._

Fair and true, but she wants an explanation. She squares her shoulders and holds her head high. Schools her expression to bossy big sister and brazens through.

“Well?”

Jack’s ears have flushed pink, but otherwise he’s maintained his equanimity.

“You first.”

“First?”

“Who’ve you been doing recently?”

“No one! Well, nothing serious. College boys aren’t that much different from high school boys. They’re, well, boys. And I only broke up with Nick in April. I know you never liked him, but it’s taking…it took me a while to get over him.”

“There are always your TAs. Or your professors.”

She knows he’s kidding, but she runs with it.  “ _Eeeeww_ …I hear stories, but I don't understand how anyone could sleep with a teacher. Forget about hot, I haven’t seen a single one who isn’t sallow, hollow chested and covered in dandruff. But…promise me you won’t laugh? Or lecture?”

“Promise.”   

“Before school ended, I might have gotten drunk at a party, done some dirty dancing with another girl and…got carried away. We might have kissed a lot, made out a little. A lot? I say might because the next day my friend called and told me this is what I was doing, before she dragged me away to sleep it off.”

He grins. He smirks.

“Shut up!”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“And stop laughing, you promised! It's not funny! I was mortified and stressed, didn’t leave bed for the rest of the weekend. I never do stupid shit like that. And before you ask there will not, I'm one hundred percent sure of this, be a repeat performance. This isn't some Sophomore Sappho thing. Only a beer goggles thing. I like dicks.” 

"But how do you know you only like boys - who you don't have many nice things to say about most of the time - if you've never tried girls? While you can remember the experience, of course."

He looks at her condescendingly, a man of the world. Et tu, Jack?

She ripostes with a sharp finger. “I know my own mind! Not everyone is fluid, _queer_ , bisexual, what the fuck ever.”

It’s still embarrassing to think about. What happens when you refuse to get over your ex - your ex who you broke up with? Jello shots and public displays of stupidity.

She grimaces, then forces a smile. “I’ve bared my soul. It’s your turn.”

Jack returns the smile, guileless and utterly sincere. “It’s complicated.”

“That’s not an answer! How can you say that to me with a straight face?”

They have a staring contest. She wins. He concedes, but his face slams shut, becomes boy stoic, a promise that she'll have to dig deep to unearth each and every pebble of detail. He leans back in his chair, until all his weight rests on the back two legs, focuses determinedly on the ceiling fan, and rocks.

“We live in different states.”

“I know that,” she replies to his chin.

“And I’m almost done with school.”

“Then you could move to where Mark is. You don't want to stay in town, do you?”

“No, not really. I've got some ideas. But, you know…”

She doesn’t, so she doesn’t say anything. He drops his chin and makes eye contact, gives her a studied, one shoulder shrug. “There are moments that are good. Great. Lots of them. But I don’t know what it adds up to. If it adds up to anything. What's the point of it all.”

“Weren’t you the one always saying that relationships are straightforward? You either want each other, are in love each other. Or you don’t and you aren't. Fuck everyone, everything, else. It’ll work itself out in the end if everyone minds their own business.”

“Maybe I’m finally growing up. About time, right?” 

He sounds cynical and bitter, very un-Jack, surprising her into silence. He lowers the chair to the ground with a _thump_. “If we go where you want for brunch, can we stop talking about this? Pretty, pretty please.”

“Fine, fine. Have it your way. As always.” She pouts, aiming for kittenish and coaxing, as usual missing the mark. It doesn't matter. As she attempts to mimic Jack's Bambi expression he stands up, oblivious to her intent, and heads to the kitchen with their mugs. She's left to holler at his back. “Let me emphasize there had better be a good reason I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“You’re the best, Sarah.”

Mark comes out of the bedroom, dressed and ready to go, and the subject is well and truly closed.

“After brunch, let’s go to the Boathouse in Central Park. We can row around the Lake, harass the ducks. Afterwards, we can find a couple of old guys who’ll kick our asses in chess.”

“Hey, speak for yourself. I’ve been playing, reading up on strategy.”

“They’ll kick my ass. You, naturally, will be showing off your  _mad skillz_ , Mark. You know you have to put money down? And no, I will not spot you. But if you want to go hear some music tonight, I’ll let you pick. Within reason.”

 

_Monday_

As promised, they go to Chinatown for lunch. She first takes them on a tour of the neighborhood. Not because she always gets turned around on Canal Street, but because she wants to show them the real city. Wants to give them the chance to smell the rotting fresh fish; see the orangey-brown duck carcasses and the vegetables not wrapped in plastic; the kids playing basketball and the grandmas and grandpas moving in unison in the park. She wants to gives them a chance to hear Chinese spoken by someone who wasn’t born in Philly; to be completely outnumbered by people who look nothing like them.

She introduces them to the wonder of soup dumplings. She does not let them order cashew chicken.

Jack wants to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge. Mark wants to pursue his interest in tattoos.

“Didn’t they just make it legal here? Have legitimate stores already popped up? Is the place safe? You made an appointment and checked the guy out, I hope. Promise me you’re not going to turn into one of those weirdos who’s completely covered in them. Your skin will eventually sag, and you’ll look like an old sailor.”

She’s not done talking and he's laughing at her. “Yes, yes, yes. And yes, yes. Would you relax, this is only my second one. Come with me, you’ll see it’s not like that.” 

It’s not as terrible as she thought it would be. After the first rush of fascinated horror (the blood) it’s surprisingly boring to watch someone have ink carved into their skin, and she forgot to bring a book. Which leads to her flipping through designs, which leads to her wondering if this is her chance to be more spontaneous, which leads to her asking if they can squeeze her in.

Her tattoo is discreet. Tasteful. It hurt. It continues to hurt. It will hurt for days. She hopes she doesn’t regret this. (She hopes Mom and Dad won't be too upset when, years from now, they find out.) Mark, on the other hand, is exultant. “It’s badass. And you’ll always have something to remember me by.”

They start the evening on her roof: enjoying the view, throwing loose chunks of cement at the pigeons that sidle too close. They smoke and sift through the dozens of Polaroids she’s taken. She has a regular camera – Polaroid film is expensive, and these days she pays for it herself - but the instant gratification of seeing the pictures, giving them to others, is on occasions like these too much to resist.

It’s sweet and easy. Not cotton candy or ice cream sweet. More like those molten chocolate cakes that are all the rage. She says it out loud, and they laugh at how sentimental she is.

For dinner Jack makes, from scratch, stovetop mac and cheese. Weed continues to make her just this side of paranoid, and she hovers (“Sarah, if you were a few inches taller you’d be literally breathing down my neck. I promise you, I will not start a kitchen fire”.)

He’s learned a thing or two in the last year, and nothing gets burned.

It might be because she’s high, but she has to admit, it’s pretty good.

 

_Tuesday_

She takes them to Barney Greengrass for real bagels and cream cheese. The boys request plain rather than everything bagels, then refuse to believe they don't require toasting. They reject tomatoes and capers, the whitefish salad and lox. She forgives them, buys them another dozen bagels to take home and walks them to their car. Kisses and hugs are exchanged. Plans to see each other again are made. "Really soon, maybe around the holidays, back in Shit Town? It’s been too long. This was so much fun. We need to stay in better touch!"

 

********

 

She didn’t go home in December. Her parents wanted to ski, and it’s hard to say no to that, even when the price of admission is a solo visit to Nana later in the winter. "Time to take responsibility for your family obligations without hiding behind us. Your grandmother has an email account if you’re 'too busy' to call."

Of course she loves her grandma, but she's old. Her chin is hairy. Her toenails are brownish-yellow, thick and crusty. (Disturbing to look at, impossible not to look at. Sarah lives in dread of the day she's asked to cut them.) And no one can convince her that her college age granddaughter’s favorite foods are no longer meat loaf, pickles and tomato soup from a can.

After so much family time, she stays away from home until Passover, a whirlwind visit.

When she has a moment to think about topics other than cooking, cleaning, cooking, setting the table, cooking, waiting a million years to eat and fucking finally eating, she realizes she can’t remember when she last emailed Jack. Did he respond to her last message? When did she send it, around New Year’s? She’s a terrible friend.

Karen answers the phone.

“Sarah, I’m sorry, I assumed Jack told you. He left town, a few weeks ago.”

“What?” It comes out an indignant squeak. She cuts herself off and recalibrates, tries to locate unconcerned. “Oh…right right. He mentioned something like that, it's just that it’s been a while since we talked. He moved up to Vermont?”

“He hasn't settled down yet. Last time we talked he said he was traveling west of…the Mississippi? The Colorado? Maybe the Arkansas. It’s so hard to keep track of those rivers. I didn't know there were so many of them until he told me he was moving to…”

Karen trails off, leaving space for a pregnant pause. Sarah wants to apologize for still being on the phone, for calling in the first place.  

“Can I have his cell phone number?”

Karen titters. “Oh my goodness, he doesn’t have one of those. He gets those cards, with the minutes? He checks in once every couple of weeks, so I don’t worry.”

“That’s pretty exciting for Jack, road trip on his own, seeing the country...”

“It is! I miss him, of course, but not everyone can spend their whole life in one place like I have. And he’s not alone. You remember Mark…? I feel a whole lot better knowing there’s someone with him.”

She swallows a sigh – wistful, exasperated.

“Tell them I say hi. Can you share my number with them, in case they want to call?” She needs to beat a hasty retreat. She soldiers on. “Also! Next time you talk to Jack, tell him my e-mail will be the same forever. I won’t be around much starting in the fall – going abroad for Junior year, to Spain and Portugal, but he can still reach me via email. I might even head out a little earlier to travel around, do the hostel th...”

_Shut up, Sarah. She doesn’t care._

"I’ll get email at this address after I graduate. Forever. Yes, so nice to talk to you too! I hope you’re doing well?” 

She hangs up the phone. Hard.

Still with the fucking drama, too wrapped up in each other to bother with anyone else’s feelings.

Idiots. Jackasses. Selfish, thoughtless pigs. _Boys_.

Her hurt and confusion are, as usual, short-lived. She’s a forgiving fool, especially where these two are concerned. That she’d get over it was never in doubt. The only question was if it would take a week or a month.

By the time she's done with finals she wishes them well. Wherever the hell they are. Whether or not they’re together.  

A few days later she's at home, debating whether she can get away with packing only a week's worth of panties, half listening to her mom dispense the same advice she gave her yesterday and the day before - "your passport is your most valuable possession, you need to keep it safe and locked up, not in your backpack or your pocket and most certainly not under your pillow; you made a copy of it, yes, and don't forget" - when an unsigned postcard arrives for her in the mail. The fine print tells her it's a Pueblo pattern, the postmark that it was mailed from somewhere in Utah that's not Salt Lake or Park City. _Check this out. Good for #3?_ There's a reddish-brown stain in the upper left corner. She sniffs it, like it'll help her pin down where Mark wrote it, who he was with, what he did that day.

By the time the new school year is underway she's begun to think of herself as _cosmopolitan_. She moves Mark and Jack into the mental column of high school friends she’s lost touch with and that's bound to happen, but if she saw them walking down the street she wouldn’t cross to the other side to avoid speaking to them. (She’s sentimental, but she doesn’t like to wallow.) 

Thanksgiving weekend, celebrated in Barcelona with codfish fritters, blood sausage, a giant pan of seafood rice and multiple pitchers of sangria, she gets an email – a long one, a real one – from Jack.

__


	15. Cut and Run

“Bagel?”

 “Another one? Fuck no. I’m never eating again. Sarah is crazy.”

“You might be happy surviving on cereal and minute ramen. Doesn’t mean the rest of us want to.”

They’re driving upstate, driving home. Zipping fifteen miles over the speed limit along a serpentine, too slender highway. They've replaced rush hour traffic, steaming trash cans and a gobbet of sun simmering in its ashen stew with a veritable Sherwood Forest of late summer green, with acid white clouds punctuating a sky so blue it has to be fake. The morning sun is bouncing off the blacktopped road, steeping him in light. He takes a moment to regret giving his drugstore sunglass collection to Jack: sprawled boneless in the passenger seat, fizzing with satisfaction. He only needs a moment. His elbow is crooked on the open window. The wind is in his hair, the sun will soon be at his back, and he doesn’t have to be at work for three more days.

“It was like we took a vacation. Together. We’ve never done that.”

“I’ve never taken one without you, either.” 

That's not exactly true. There was the time he went to visit relatives in Yonkers. His dad couldn’t make it through the long weekend without picking a fight with his sister, eventually – inevitably - storming off, him trailing abashedly behind. There was the time they drove to Kentucky to hunt with one of Dad’s war buddies. A more successful outing thanks to those three girls he met in the Wendy's parking lot. After quizzing him on who, what, how, why, where they were determined to show him the joys of small town cruising.

Further back, before Dad, there were weekends by the water. The sand burning his feet as he hotfooted, sniveling, to where they’d set up shop; never close to the other kids, and he didn't have the words to change her mind. When he tired of digging holes and pouring buckets of water into them, of burying her in clumps of wet sand while she trilled _All the way up to my chin!_ he searched for the dead things - sharks, crabs and jellyfish, the occasional gull or plover - that washed up on shore. Once he swam far out, farther than usual, and was too tired to make it all the way back. He struggled, sank, had to be rescued. (Not clear and hushed and looking up, flowing towards the light; but dark and turbulent, thrashing and pounding and no no no.) She cried and smacked him and cried some more.

It’s not that he intentionally hides these stories from Jack. It’s rather that he never thinks about them. Now that he does, he sees the memories are sepia toned and faded, scratchy around the edges. A home movie of a far away time, not worth revisiting. Who was that kid? Who cares. He was no one of value, no one to look back on.

Recently, he’s been thinking in metaphors. He’s been thinking, recently.

It’s different than before. Before, revelations sidled up to him on little cat feet. They whispered in his ear so slyly he didn’t understand they were driving his actions. So soothingly he didn't grasp these actions had consequences. So silkily he didn't notice someone - licking his lips, slavering to make him pay - was counting every single misstep he made in their name.

This time, a revelation hasn’t felled him like a hammer to the head (like a dildo to the windshield of a cherry red sports car.) Hasn't burrowed under his skin until he realizes, far too late, that he’s infested, covered all over, inside and out, in tiny red bites and there’s no room in his head for anything but scratch scratch scratch. Even as the relief is only temporary. Even as it only makes him want to do it again and again and again. 

He won't, this time, put into play brilliantly terrible ideas sparked by suggestive smirks; beautiful skin, shy eyes and an amazing rack; codeine and weed; fists to his face and boots to his kidneys.

This time, he hasn’t even had a revelation, a bolt from on high, as much as an awakening. A persistent buzz in his ear that's pulled him out of a long, restless sleep.

With wakefulness has come understanding. 

That nobody gets everything they want. He's not particularly special, not especially damned in having to choose, to give up some things to get others.

That it’s all connected. Each day a link in a chain that stretches all the way back to his birth and all the way forward to his end. He can keep doing what he’s been doing, what he’s always done. Let everyone have a say in how its made; let them add to it however they want (carelessly, sloppily, selfishly, unthinkingly) while he stands on the sidelines and carps that they're doing it wrong, that they're screwing him. Or he can take charge, make sure the joins are solid, done in the right places. The right way. The way only he knows how.

He looks in the mirror. He looks like the same asshole he’s always been. He looks in the mirror. He knows he’s the same asshole he’s always been. After all these years, he’s not a better person.

But he’s ready.

As ready as he’ll ever be.

********

It happens like this.

“I told you about those people I met, at that party?”

They’re an hour away from Jack’s. Easy straightaway road, not much traffic. He should do it now.

“With the white dreads? Who got you into ‘shrooms and taught you to chant?”

It comes out, naturally, more combative than it should. When he should ingratiate himself - roll on his back, waggle his paws, wriggle and sway - he has an atavistic need to do the opposite. To crouch low, gnash his teeth and snarl. A gift from Dad, he supposes. The one that keeps on giving.

Jack's used to him, though. He dismisses him with a unruffled snort, an unhurried smile. “You’re one to talk, with your baseball caps and jerseys, smoking blunts. They took me to this show a while back. Yes, I did some ‘shrooms; and you’re right, the music isn’t very good. Trey’s voice pretty much sucks. That's not the point.”

He can never resist when Jack lines them up for him. "You have one?”

“If you’d let me finish. I thought it’d be full of crusty Dead heads or frat boys. Sure there were some, but the vibe was good. Being outdoors, hanging out was nice. It wasn't about the music, not really. It was about being together. Kind of like this. Though this is way better because you’re here and we got to see Sarah. It was like old times. But also better than old times because we were somewhere new and after all these years everything's still cool between us. We're all still friends. Everyone says they're going to be friends after high school. But how often does that happen? Almost never.”  

With a contented hum, Jack lapses into silence. They listen to the wheels thunk thunk thunk. How the engine, smaller than the ones in a good riding mower, struggles to keep up. Jack's somewhere else, so he sneaks a look. He's cuddling the plastic bag of food Sarah gave him. His new haircut curls around his ears and wisps across his forehead. It emphasizes his eyes, makes them rounder and darker. He's somehow younger, more earnest and naive and dreamy; and how can he leave Jack, baby bird Jack on his own? All beak and eyes and fresh pink skin and what the fuck is going to happen to him when he finally leaves the nest? What cat or jay or slinky, slithering thing will eat him up if (when) he falls? Jack, who's hidden the truth from him for months while he pretends he doesn't notice a thing. While he debates whether he should take the easy way out, stay behind and no one would blame him, could blame him for doing so. Not this time. Until he's forced to concede that isn't, hasn't, won't ever be his way. (Until he's forced to admit he doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to be left behind.)

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Are you going to give me shit? For rambling? For being childish and optimistic?”

 “Not today. There's something else I'd much rather give you shit about.”


	16. The Great Unknown: Take I

He blinked and obfuscated, mumbled and stalled. When those tactics failed, he got defensive. He got _mad_.

It’s not the first time he’s lied to Sarah. Not the second or third, either. The woods? He will go to his grave before he tells her the truth.

He has his reasons. Then? Of course. Now? A little bit of superstition, possibly. Or a lot of fear. If he speaks the words out loud Sarah will prick a thousand holes in his paper thin plans. Gaze at him with bright brown eyes and ask “Oh wow, have you thought about?” Naturally, his answer will be “no.”

It could be that he, who for the first sixteen years of his life lied about nothing because he had nothing worth holding on to, not even delusions, has gotten into the habit. Has discovered that lies, especially those of omission, don't bother him if they get him what he wants; that in fact they make his life easier, if only in the moment.

It could be that he enjoys the illusion of being in control? Who doesn’t.

Perhaps it’s all of the above; or none of the above. He’s lived his whole life in Shit Town, the same place his parents grew up, with the over familiarity you can expect from such a situation. Teachers who - because they taught his mom, taught his dad – had him pegged before he entered their classrooms. Kids who’ve known him since he was in preschool, and his window to shape their opinion of him came and went fifteen years ago. Grocers, gas station attendants, diner waitresses and the postman who will never not get a kick out of: _You’ve always been such a shy, quiet boy_ , _I remember when you were this high_ _blah blah blah_. 

He runs into the same people over and over, whether or not he’s acquainted, whether or not he even knows their names, making him feel like he can’t go anywhere without being observed and commented on. Mocked. Judged, then dismissed.

Going to college is, in theory, a good way to have fresh experiences. To some extent he has, but when you’re living at home, commuting daily to school, working the same place your mom does. When it takes three months after graduating high school to pass your driver’s test, and nine months more to get your own car, those experiences continue to feel not dissimilar to high school.  

It's not complicated. Why he needs to start fresh, start fresh in a place where there's no need to guard his self, his desires so vigilantly. Why no matter what he decides to do, disappear or blend or stand out, he wants nothing more than for it to be his choice.

Maybe years with Mark have rubbed off on him.

“I’m not your mom. Or Sarah. I pay attention. To you. You’ve had a flashing neon sign over your head for months. ‘Fuck you. You’ll be sorry when I’m gone.’”

Maybe years with him have rubbed off on Mark.  

“Also, you were at work, and I was bored. Your computer was on, so I went through your messages.”

He is angry. No, not angry. He is furious (unsettled sheepish chagrined). He speaks the first words that comes to mind.

“You know how to use email?”

********

“Why there?”

“It’s quiet and rainy and sad. Like home, but not home. I like that.” 

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s as far as I can get from Shit Town without leaving the continental U.S. It’s got a giant hospital. I know someone who knows someone who knows someone in HR, and after six months of non-stop hounding she's promised that if I take the shit jobs and the shit shifts, if I pass my interview and a licensure exam and a drug test there'll be something for me. And while I wait, there's always the cafeteria. And fuck you, I want to live near real mountains.”

“Better.”

He’s wedged into the farthest corner of his seat. He’s looking directly at Mark, pinning him in place and there’s nowhere, no way he can hide.

Mark insists that he acts only on impulse. As the spirit moves him. That’s a lie. Mark’s anticipated and planned. He’s orchestrated. He wants, he wants, he wants.

Jack opens his mouth.

“You refuse to promise the two of us will last. You won’t promise to not lose your mind when someone gives us shit for being together. You can’t promise you’ll be able to find steady work that’ll help you stick around. What can you promise? Anything? Anything at all?”

“To not go looking for trouble. To be useful. To you.”

He looks at Mark, at his defiantly unconcerned face, a slipshod mask. His knuckles are wrapped white around the steering wheel; his eyes shift continuously between him and the road. His jaw's bulging, he’s silently begging. _Don’t leave me behind_.

He thinks about his long in the making, admittedly half-assed plans. Fuzzy images of an after-work beer at the designated after-work bar. The bar where he’d meet his new boyfriend. (Or girlfriend? Unlikely, but he's not quite ready to say never again.) Fleeting glimpses of how he’ll spend his days off: hiking, watching TV, playing video games, learning something new and a little scary. Rock climbing? Mountain biking? Not dissimilar to how he spends his time in Shit Town. Nevertheless, his days will be exponentially improved because - even if he spends most of his time at work, most of his free time sitting on his ass - he’ll be doing it somewhere different, somewhere better.

He thinks about a daydream he’s had for months, for years: Mark surprised (stunned dazed shocked) to learn he’s gone. He berates himself that he took him for granted; marvels that he underestimated him. Mark asks Mom where he is, but she plays dumb. No matter how many times he asks she doesn’t tell him, doesn’t tell him. She finally relents - but only after he gives her the ok. Mark drops everything and rushes off to find him. He walks out of the main entrance of the hospital, after his shift. The rain is descending in sheets. In buckets. Mark, of course, doesn’t have an umbrella; neither does he because who carries fucking umbrellas with them. Mark says, “I love you. I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t live without you. It’s you you, only you. Always you. Whatever you want, anything for you.” He believes him, but he’s tougher now. More experienced, less needy. Which allows him to reply skeptically (with a raised eyebrow, a cool look), “I’ll think about it.” He gives Mark a hard time but eventually, weeks or months later, he relents, and it’s raining again and they’re in front of the hospital again and they’re kissing, getting soaked, right out in the open with ambulances racing by and

There’s a toll plaza, a line, and Mark eases to a stop. Eyes focused ahead he reaches, trails fingers down his arm. Places a questioning, hopeful hand on top of his.

And Jack understands this has already happened.

He closes his eyes.

He lets it go.  

********

To fully prepare to move across the country, to be properly fortified to take a road trip that morphs from three weeks to three months to we'll get there when we get there, it's a huge country that he's never seen and this is his chance, in all likelihood his only one for years and years perhaps ever - and need he remind you that he doesn't have a job in hand so what's the rush - he needs more time than the nine hundred days he’d initially estimated. (He needs more money than he’d initially estimated.)

They scrap their two cars and put the cash towards a new one - a van that has slightly less than one hundred thousand miles on it and costs slightly more than a thousand dollars. He likes driving it, looking down on everyone. That it's a hippie conveyance that has Mark wincing and gloomily prognosticating they'll be a magnet for cops wherever they travel makes it that much sweeter. 

If they want to sleep comfortably ("No, Jack, we cannot sleep at truck stops; unless we want to be assaulted by a semi-driver high on crank.") they’ll need to _build out_ the van; they'll need a tent, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, tarps, a lantern. A pot, a stove, fuel for this stove. Tackle and bait? Once he starts to make a list the items multiply at an alarming rate, but with a self-satisfied grin ( _See how useful to you I already am!_ ) Mark dismisses his concerns. “We don’t need half this shit. If we do, we can pick it up along the way. We’re going west of the Rockies, not on an expedition to the fucking Antarctic.” They work - him here, Mark there - snatching a day there, a weekend here. He, at least, saves every penny. Mark builds smooth plywood contraptions - a lockbox, a sleeping platform, a table - that he swears will make their lives easier. They leave the last day of February.

He tells his mom they’re hitting the road, and he’ll let her know when they land in Portland. “Of course I’ll stay in touch, Mom, there are these things called phones. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” He says it but isn’t sure if, once he clears the driveway, she will. Worry, that is.

He's left the state here and there. He's left the East Coast never. He has a list. (He's grown fond of them.)

They drive south. Somewhere in North Carolina they turn right. Somewhere around Asheville his list gets thrown out.

“I met this girl who told me about the good places to hear music in Memphis.”

“New Orleans. Are you saying you don’t want to go?”

“They live in San Antonio, and I said we’d give them a ride. They have weed, and they’ll pay us to drive them!”

In Mississippi, they catch unwelcome attention. He has to hustle Mark away before they both wind up hospitalized.

In Louisiana, someone steals a hundred and thirteen dollars out of his back pocket while he's looking the other way.

In Texas, in a generic college bar he gets drunk and flirts (a little, to be polite) with a (hot) guy (with amazing forearms; he has a yen for them, the way they un-showily hint at what's just out of sight.) Mark smokes something that dials him up to glower, which he does until they get into a screaming argument in the parking lot, complete with shoving, a wild swing and a miss and a face plant that somehow doesn't chip a single tooth. He locks Mark out and drives away, forcing him to find somewhere else to sleep. In the moment, it’s ridiculous and melodramatic. In the harsh light of day it’s frightening and cringe-worthy, and he doesn't intend to repeat the experience. Even though it resulted in Mark making it up to him in a dark back alley, hard and fast against the side of the van, and that's one item off his sex bucket list. 

An unintended consequence: discovering Mark gets jealous. He tucks this bit of knowledge in his pocket; takes it out from time to time and rubs it between his fingers, enjoying how it feels: a chipped pebble worn smooth by the tide.

********

Jack will never tire of driving in the West. He’s agog at the sky. How can it be so big, be everywhere he turns? He drinks in the intricate spaciousness of a landscape that isn’t verdant and congenial; that doesn’t cling to him, humid and drowsy, smelling like life past its sell-by-date.

Rather, it’s fluid, forever changing. Everything - the light and clouds, land and horizon - distinct, cleanly delineated, one from the other. There are none of the blurred, moist edges and low hanging sky that (was) home.

They do indeed camp. Sometimes legally, sometimes not. In a tent. In their van. In forests and meadows. By streams and on public lands. In Wal-Mart parking lots. Side by side and it’s awfully close, closer than he’s been to anyone. He thought before they were close: the bathroom, the bedroom, the kitchen, the living room steps apart, traversed in seconds. School and home, the park and the diner, every other spot in town a place he once upon a time was, currently is, one day could be with Mark. This is a whole nother level. To not just every day wake up, fall asleep to the sounds of the other doing the same. To not just spend their days together, from breakfast to lunch to dinner and, when they’re absolutely totally completely positive no one is around, spread out blankets in the open and kiss until one of them demands "more"; rub a scruffy cheek across soft parts until the other giggles; fuck under the stars (cheesy as hell, not especially comfortable, but also and most importantly, amazing). But to always be mindful they have to make this cross-country trek work. When they get where they're going they might fall apart for good. For real. For the very last time. (During their weeks of driving he's had ample time to entertain the possibility that nothing - a sense of security, being a nonentity, school, the nuclear family, mountains of rock and the rivers that cut through them, his love of flannel, happiness - is meant to last forever.) He can finally confront this possibility, The End, head-on. Without his heart plunging into his stomach and the only way to hoist it back in place is to waste the remainder of the day devising elaborately insane plans to ensure it never happens. 

But neither would dream of abandoning the other in a podunk town in South Carolina or Tennessee or Arkansas.

Before, Mark was the new and exciting element in his humdrum life, burning off the fog, bringing heat and light and joy. Now, Mark’s the constant, albeit unsteady, center of a ceaselessly shifting mosaic.

He'd forgotten, after almost twenty-one months of living apart (six hundred and thirty one days, yes, he counted) how good it feels to be together. How good it feels to have the time and space to be friends. Didn’t realize how much he’d like this version of them.  

********

In the brown and green Chihuahuan desert they lurch for miles along a dirt road. To a campsite with space for one other vehicle: a spacious RV. Nevertheless, the family of five that belongs to it is setting up, because if you can why not, two mansion sized tents, ones large enough to stand up and move around in. The parents keep their distance. Eye them politely and nod skeptically. They stand in the strong-white, early evening sun: examining wistfully the trees too far in the distance, debating whether to sleep in the van or the tent, desultorily arguing whose turn it is to cook and whose turn it is to set up sleeping arrangements. The kids, two girls and a boy, brave close. Stare rudely and smile.

“How're you going to use the bathroom?" asks the littlest one, the one who already knows the answer but can't resist, in a piping, six-year old voice. "There are no toilets here.”

“Rosie," admonishes overly responsible big sister, "it’s not nice to talk about other people when they’re right there.”

“But you were talking about them! Saying they look weird! That their van is going to break down and we're going to have to give them a ride back to Marathon!”

“I didn't say that!” big sister squawks. She pulls Rosie's arm, a wrenching tug that produces a dramatic howl, and he tries not to laugh. Or scratch his sixteen-day beard and sniff his fingernails.

“If they don’t have a potty, idiot," the put-upon, middle one sneers, rolling his eyes at his siblings and wordlessly requesting his sympathy ( _Girls, they suck! You're a sort of man, you understand what I'm talking about_ ), "they’ll have to dig a hole in the ground. Or use a plastic bag.”

“Yeah,” he half squats and scrunches up his face. “I hope a scorpion doesn’t bite my butt right in the middle of.” Grabs his ass and mimes an _Ow!_

Laughing, they scamper off. "I told you! So weird!"

Late that night, he and Mark climb up to the roof and get high. The dark is so pure, so vast he can see the Milky Way: wispy clouds dotted purple and blue and green. He swears he can see it spinning, feel the earth rotating under him and once again he’s flying, but this time Mark’s with him - head on his shoulder, arm slung warm and heavy across his stomach - and they’ve already escaped. They go to Mexico for the day, and _they’re in another country_. He never thought he’d do that in his entire life. Never hoped for it, in all his daydreaming about the future.

They stop in a river strewn wilderness complete with crazy rock formations, deep and narrow canyons, ancient cliff dwellings and no back country paperwork. To start, there's high desert of cactus and mesquite; in the middle, forests of purple flowers and ponderosa; near the top are stands of aspen, and at the very tippy top are spruce and fir. Just like he told Mark. He reminds him, and he remains unimpressed.

“If we see a rattlesnake, or a cougar or a bear, that will be something to get excited about.”

They don’t, thank Christ. They do see some wild pigs, though. They’re pretty cute.

********

In Texas, they make friends. Mark springs for booze, he adds his name to the cooking roster, and they eat food that isn’t dried or cured or dehydrated or possible to put in a box and come back for in a hundred years. They sleep on a lumpy, Indian print covered futon in a room with two bead curtains for doors, in the middle of a ruler straight line of seven, each one opening on to the next. He falls asleep, wakes up to the sound of unfamiliar breathing, to musty barnyard smells, and it's the closest he's been to a group of people...ever. 

At yet another house party, Mark has a homing beacon for them, he sits in a corner and nurses a cup of punch, cloying and pink. He fakes comfort, fakes conversation and from the corner of his eye watches Mark work the room. Far more knowing, still charming as ever. Sprinkled with the dust of whatever it is (Gold? Sex? Lack of concern for his own well-being?) that has people wanting to touch him, spend time with him, be friends with him. (He, of course, being Exhibit A.)

He wonders what Mark sees in him, why he’s chosen him, again and again, over everyone else he could have.

One day, he might ask.

“Those girls like our story, said we should crash with them for a couple of nights, maybe more."

“In exchange for what?”

“For sharing our drugs and making nice and you not pouting if one of them gets curious and puts a hand on my knee. Or yours!”

He doesn’t get jealous. Mostly.

In New Mexico, they stop at an Indian casino and win two hundred fifty bucks from a slots machine.

In Arizona, after a series of unrelated…mishaps (including a strip club fiasco, a run-in with the police, and a series of van malfunctions that would be comical if it wasn't their house), he is thisclose to taking the bus straight to Portland. Or going back home. Mark talks him off the ledge. He finds a kitchen job. Mark picks up day work. They find space in a RV park.

After that, they’re more careful.

*********

They're cleaning the van at a two pump gas station, arid and quaint. Half of Jack's mind is focused on their next destination, a quarter on lunch, and the other quarter on Mark's torso. For Mark, scrubbing weeks' worth of dirt off the van is a shirtless activity. He circles a tatty sponge across the front window, weighs _burger or chicken sandwich_ , asks _what state are we sleeping in tonight?_ and watches droplets of water drip down Mark's chest and stomach. Observes how they slip in and out of his belly button before ending their journey in the elastic of his shorts, dark and wet. 

A cold spray of water hits him in the chest, and he almost doesn't squeak. Mark smirks. _I know what you're thinking._ “You've been cleaning that same spot for five minutes. And I want to go swimming.” 

He replies with the water-logged sponge, and it almost makes contact with Mark's forehead. _Sucking you off in a gas station bathroom: gross cliché, essential rite of passage or both?_ “Lemme check the map. We can ask the cashier, too.”

“Not here. Not in a lake or a river. Swim in the ocean, the Pacific ocean. It’s awesome, and you’ve never been.”

“And you have?”

Mark's only answer is an equivocal "hmpf." He dismisses it as a passing fancy and returns to his now single-minded, pornographic meditation.

But as soon as they're finished, before he can climb back into the formerly brown, now grey van, Mark retrieves a map from the glove compartment and shoves it in his hands. "Southern California. It's not that far."

“I thought you hated the beach.”

“I never said that.”

“You want to drive,” he gets down on all fours and spreads the map along the ground, takes his time checking the distance, “more than five hundred miles to go to the beach.” He doesn’t believe Mark, and not just because he's crowding him, skin to skin, breathing soft encouragement in his ear. "That's not far. We've driven a lot further." 

He stands up, he steps back. He doesn't want to make this decision kneeling at Mark's feet, listening to him clumsily inveigle. “We'll have to backtrack. It's the totally opposite direction. Plus, it’ll be harder to camp there.”

Mark snatches the map from him and assiduously folds it the wrong way. “I want to learn to surf. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How? Be specific.”

“Don’t you want a real bed? A hot shower? A toilet you’re not sharing with a hundred other people? A toilet that flushes and isn’t already full of floaters? Remember that fuzzy green, two foot long one that you couldn't stop looking at, that almost made you barf?”

“Yes, but we can stay in a motel anywhere. I saw a sign for one that's close.”

“The Dodgers are in town." Before he has a chance to point out the obvious, Mark's talking again. "There’s more. It’ll be a surprise. That you’ll like. Anyway, if you think about it, you owe me. Didn't I spend the last week walking up and down and all around that giant hole in the ground with you?”

They drive from morning to evening. Mark commandeers the wheel and refuses to relinquish it, agrees to only the briefest of stops. By afternoon Mark's speaking in monosyllables, providing him with ample time to take it all in: ten lanes of stuttering traffic bisecting two-story suburbs, relentless and beige, under a smog-choked sky. There is no ocean in sight. He feels like a boy raised by wolves, rescued and told what he's currently too stupid to understand: he's back in civilization and therefore is happy.

He has no idea how Mark feels. He's not sure he gives a shit.

They check into the dingiest airport motel they can find, complete with broken light fixtures and stern warnings about occupancy limits, how the room is not to be utilized. There is, as promised, a hot, semi-clean shower. He scrubs his skin until it hurts, doesn't think about exiting the tub until the water runs cold. There are two beds. No need for discussion, he takes one and Mark the other. He rolls repeatedly from one side of the mattress to the other, reveling in the cigarette stale, polyester sheets, how they soothe his dry itchy flaking hot skin. 

Mark's asking him about something or the other. He'd like to reply. To enjoy the bed and the air conditioning, the television he misses less than he thought he would, but still a whole lot. He's yawning, his arms are wrapped round a pillow, he's gone. 

He wakes up violently: heart pounding, aching and disoriented, lost between swampy sheets and foreign walls. Rode hard and put away wet, and not in the good way.

He’s alternating squints and blinks, trying to bring the pockmarked ceiling into focus, to will away the kaleidoscope filter over his eyeballs, when the bathroom door opens and, through a puff of steam, a shout of brassy light, out walks Mark. Clean shaven and dressed: black shoes and a dark purple button down shirt tucked into black pants. Funeral clothes that he's carted in a duffel for thousands of miles. Ironed too, it's on the combination desk-television stand-chest of drawers. Mark’s eyes slide past him and to the right, to the front door. He fidgets with his (overly gelled) hair and announces, peremptorily, “I’m heading out. Need to take care of something.” _By myself_ unspoken, loud and clear as a church bell.

“That’s…” It would be one hundred percent appropriate to say _fucking ridiculous_ ; or how about _I knew it, I knew it! If I hadn’t woken up, you’d have snuck out without telling me, wouldn’t you? Would you have bothered to leave me a note?_ He settles for a passive aggressive, “Want to share what the ‘something’ is? Since you’re taking the car, I assume, and I’m stuck here until you get back?”

Mark stiffens, imperceptible to most people, but he’s not most people. Regards him dimly, through shuttered eyes, but he’s never been scared of Mark, even when he should be.   

“Someone.” Reluctantly. “A family thing.” An answer that precipitates a dozen more questions.

_Family what family your mom your uncle your grandparents you haven’t mentioned family since your dad lived in my house back in Shit Town and even then you never told me you lived here what the fuck is going on and why and how and where and how long have you been planning this and were you are you ever going to tell me and_

“Ok.”

When he doesn’t probe, ask for the details anyone in his position would demand, Mark relaxes, less a loosening of muscles than a brightness returning to his face. Eyes flicking back and forth between him and the door, he rocks forward and up on his toes, preparing to take flight 

“There’s a bus. It’ll pick you up right outside, take you wherever you want. You should go somewhere - see the beach, the ocean. They’re really close. I won’t be back, probably, until tomorrow.”

“Sure. I’ll check it out.”

Mark grabs his backpack. “When I get back, we should take advantage of the room." Brushes his foot, stretched under the sheet. Here and gone. "It’s been a while since…”

He accepts it, gracelessly, for the inadequate apology it is. After Mark leaves he continues to lie in bed and fume, too annoyed to turn on the television. When he's cycled through his rants multiple times, is restless from spent rage, he throws on a t-shirt, pulls jeans over a pair of swim trunks, grabs a towel and takes the bus - comparing and contrasting the other passengers to him, reassuring himself no one seems to mind - to the beach. Where he learns Mark truly did a number on him. It’s barely seventy degrees by the water, forget about in the water. ( _Baywatch_ didn’t prepare him for how cold the Pacific is in June.) He has to settle for the surf nibbling his toes, lapping his ankles and sending goosebumps up his shins.

As he walks along the bike path breathing deep, holding in, the salty wet, the sand and wind - trying to memorize the sight and smell and taste of them - he watches planes stream into and out of the airport, flying so low he learns their names, learns they have names. He strolls into a nondescript small town that could be called More Expensive Shit Town By The Sea, where he stops at a diner and for thirty minutes he’s returned home. From a distance, it’s not so bad. He asks his waitress for advice, walks another thirty minutes and this is what he expected – an endless, down-at-its-heels boardwalk with a ragtag parade of surfers, grey hippies and people who need to check themselves into a psych ward; shitty sidewalk artists and marginally less shitty musicians; roller skaters and regular skaters; packs of kids skipping school, Schwarzenegger wannabes pumping iron on the beach; gaping tourists who look nothing like him, he blends. And everywhere he turns, the comforting scent of weed.

He has multiple opportunities to uncomprehendingly half-smile at strangers who ask him to buy any number of things.

He wanders along the canals. Past low slung, peeling cottages; then away from the water, until he reaches a street that makes him nervous, so he backtracks and tries again. It turns chilly, the crowds thin. To piss off Mark, and because he’s cold and it costs three ninety-nine, he buys a red and grey Baja hoodie from a thrift store. He orders a to-go steak burrito the size of his head and a second one for the homeless guy outside, propped near the entrance. Takes the bus to his motel and calls his mom. “I’m good, really good. We both are. Mark says hi. Yes, I’m being careful. We saw the ocean today. I love you too. I'll call again soon, I know it's been too long.”

Morning arrives. Still no Mark. What he’d like to do: sit in his room and obsess. What he does do: force himself up and out the door, no note, no plan. He’ll get off the bus somewhere, anywhere, and walk until he finds something to do, something he can describe to Mark when he returns. Because Mark’s going to come back. He wouldn’t leave him to rot for days (for weeks?) in this sketchy motel where he’s not making eye contact with anyone in case they get the wrong idea about him; where he’s almost positive he was propositioned, but maybe that biker was just overly friendly?

He’s being irrational. He can’t help it. He’s not ready to fully trust Mark. Never again wants to be caught off-guard, surprised by the inevitable.

(If he did smother that final spark of misgiving, stop fanning that last hot coal of righteous indignation, what would it mean for him, for them? That he’d given up? That he’d given in?)

When he returns to the room at the end of the day, styrofoam containers of chips, salsa, beans and rice in hand, the patently fake smell of toilet-bowl cleaner, the world’s most unappetizing piece of fruit, is layered with a new, familiar smell. Mark’s standing a foot away from the blank TV, head down, remote dangling between finger and thumb. He's staring at the carpet. His hair’s lank, hanging over his eyes, and he’s wearing the same (rumpled, untucked, stained) clothes as yesterday.

He shuts the door - smoothly, softly. Mark doesn't lift his head. Doesn't give any indication he's aware he's standing a few feet away.

“You’re back.” He says it like he would to an animal that he doesn’t want to bound off the trail; or to a patient who’s gotten bad news from the doctor.

He waits, doesn't venture closer. Mark finally turns, but to look past him, raging and exhausted. He waits, doesn't venture closer. The clouds over Mark only grow darker, so he divests himself of his supplies and locks himself in the bathroom. Listens to the sink water spit down the drain while he examines his face in the mirror: looking serious, excited, depressed, mad as hell. While he asks, not for the first time, why it is so mild and forgiving. It's not his style to blame his mom for anything. She did the best she could, that is his story and he's sticking with it. Once in a while, though, he wishes she'd taught him how to get angry and stay that way. 

Outside the bathroom, the storm has passed. Mark shakes his head, wry and self-mocking. “Take me to bed, Jack.” 

Mark reaches for his hand, and he thinks he’s going to place it on his crotch. Instead, he loosely twines their fingers together; tips forward, tucks the top of his head under his chin and sags against him. He has to wrap his free arm around Mark to keep him from slipping to the ground, or knocking the two of them over.

He forgets his joke about Mark being too stupid to work the remote. That he was going to guilt trip him something fierce for sending him to an ice water beach, then casually ask how his _family thing_ turned out. He forgets to wonder what’s going through his head; to prepare himself for what Mark might do - to him - in retaliation for the misery he subjected himself to. A misery that, if he'd asked for his advice he might have avoided, if he'd asked for his help he wouldn't have had to go through alone.

When was the last time Mark did this, display blatant need for him that he didn't first encase in a brittle shell? That night (false peace) before that day (near miss) his brain (all him) won't let him think about for more than a second at a time? He has to cup this soap bubble moment in his palm, keep it from bursting, but first he needs to stop holding his breath. He releases it slowly, no rasp in his throat.

As he takes him into his mouth, Mark sighs and cards his fingers through his hair. He stifles a moan that’s equal parts solace and pleasure; ruts against the mattress, momentary relief for his aching dick. It’s been too long since they’ve been this way.

Mark doesn’t let him stay. He tugs his shoulders. _Come back_. Sits in his lap, pushes down hard and fast, startling a "Jesus, be careful," out of him. Then barely moves, content to rock slowly, to kiss his neck and murmur “not yet don’t stop, not yet don’t stop.”  It’s a bit much to ask, but it’s Mark so he tries. Waits. Listens to him. “You know how I feel. Know I love you, know I need you. How you look at me, what you to do to me. This. You, inside me, feels so good, so fucking good. Of course you know. You always do.” Until it’s too much and, holding Mark steady, he moves. He tips over the edge, he falls.

********

They drive through Death Valley, cut their way across southern Nevada and into Utah.

Through rugged, rock strewn desert as alien, as empty as the surface of the moon (and he envisions the van breaking down, death by dehydration, vultures picking their bones clean by the side of the road.) He sees bright red sandstone and tan and grey limestone. Mile after mile (after mile) of no turns necessary, driving. Of dusty ochre hills punctuated by scrubby bush and wizened trees. Of side roads that scroll endlessly into the distance; their signposts promise at the end are the reservations of tribes he’s never heard of.

The heat is palpable, restless. It beats continuously against the windshield, demanding entry. The AC does its best, but gas is expensive. They go without, and this is what it must feel like, to be a steak on the grill. He’s reached his limit, is on the verge of suggesting they make a direct run for the Cascades, when they start to climb, thousands of feet. And everywhere he turns, water. In mile wide lakes and rushing streams. Filling gullies and rivers. Cutting S-shaped paths through the spongy earth. Drawing borders in a boundless tract of grass and pine.   

“We should spend some time here. It’s free to camp.”

Nights aren’t chilly, they’re cold. Mornings are grey, mist flowing down the mountains, hanging between the trees like streamers.

The fifth morning, he’s woken by grumpy knuckles between his ribs, coming in with enough force that he can feel them through multiple layers of fleece. “I’m sick of sleeping in the van.”

“We’re in the van?” They’re not in the van.

“And I’m sick of this shitty tent, too. I can’t stand up in it. It’s getting another rip I need to patch. There’s barely room to breath. And when I do breath, I wanna barf. You fucking stink.”

“You, on the other hand, smell like fucking roses.”

He does not point out that for almost a year they regularly slept in a twin bed – a bunk bed - narrower than the tent, and Mark never complained. Was in fact the one who always inched closer, pincered his arm and draped it over him, trapped one knee between his two so he couldn’t roll away in his sleep. (He wanted to, eventually did extricate himself. Who wants to snuggle all night? Not him.) He doesn't remind Mark that yesterday morning he woke up to him snuffling into his neck, insinuating ice cold fingers into his sleeping bag, under his shirt. “Your stomach is so warm.”

He refrains, because Mark’s been in a mood: spiky, scratchy, snarly. It commenced soon after they turned north, and it’s been building, day by day.

The irritation doesn't surprise him. He welcomes the proximity, has always desired it in one form or another. Mark’s different, though. Even when they were sixteen and ignorant little shitheads, when everything was new and exciting and they couldn’t get enough of each other, couldn't keep their hands off each other and (Mark) didn’t understand why, now and then he’d fuck off. After the first few times, he stopped worrying. Mark always came back.

They've been on the road for months. It makes sense he needs to be apart. Jack finds ways to give it to him. He leaves Mark to smoke and talk, to noodle around on the guitar with likeminded backpackers. In the tent he cocoons himself in his sleeping bag, fastens headphones in place with a hat, and puts on repeat a CD he picked up in a swap: spacey and druggy, hypnotic and sad. He's alone in a ship that's lost power, that's tumbling aimlessly through space, end over end and there's nothing but a closet full of pills to keep him company. It's the perfect music to block out the ever present, rustling dark he's not yet accustomed to and probably never will be. It's the perfect music to drift to.

He makes plans that don’t include Mark.

“Oh, I figured I’d fish by myself. Didn’t you want to go rafting with those guys you met back at the station?”

Mark examines him suspiciously. His heel taps out a staccato beat, his fingers stretch wider a hole in his t-shirt, but he doesn’t pursue it. “See you tonight, then.”

Perhaps it’s the cooler air, hour after hour of spinning for trout and the space they provide, but he starts to – slowly, always too slowly, thinking but still not the right way – establish new connections, consider he might have it wrong. Remember that in Texas, New Mexico, even Arizona (but not California), Mark’s commented “this isn’t so bad, we could stay here, if we had to,” and he’s replied “it’s all right,” but they both know he means "no way." Recall that each time he utters the words _September_ or _Portland_ or _The Hospital_ Mark’s eyes turn ambiguous. He fiddles with the radio and complains how much he hates country music, hates Spanish music, hates Jesus music. Changes the subject to abstruse van mechanics or where they'll be next week or how they’d better pull over and get gas and water “the next store is a hundred miles away.” When he’s lain in the tent or the van and speculated how they’ll spend the weekends he’s not working, what their life a year from now will look like, Mark’s responded more than once by flipping open the sleeping bag and slipping a firm hand inside his boxers. Whispering, as his eyes slip shut, as his balls grow heavy and tight, as Mark’s hand becomes slippery and he offers him his wrist to bite, a sharp push up the last steps, “You talk too much, Jack.” 

 

 


	17. The Great Unknown: Take II

“Stop here.”

They’re in Idaho. The roads are empty and endless. Not straight. Not monotonous, either. Rising above, falling into a gilded, wall-to-wall carpet of a valley. Wherever he turns there’s something new: the round, radiant sky - it pulls him close even as it’s too big to hold; a roaring, rushing snaking river whose name he knows; snowcapped mountains strung tightly together, beads on a string, and soon he’ll be close enough to see the details etched on their deceptively placid surfaces.

He cranks the window down and turns off the fan, turns off the radio. Mark sits up from where he’s slumped, dozing or pretending to. He yawns and rubs his back against the seat slantwise, like it's a scratching post. Wraps wrists round his headrest and cracks his back. Stretches up and hands press into the ceiling; stretches forward and they touch the dashboard. He looks inquiringly at the wheel, at him, but he shakes his head. _Nope. I'm fine._ Mark settles into a new slouch and pushes his nose into the glass. Likes what he sees and rolls down his window; aligns his forearms with the sill and rests his cheek on them, hair snapping back and forth in the eighty mile an hour headwind.

They pass through one town, a second and a third. Stop at a Denny’s and by mutual, unspoken agreement, take their burgers, fries and sodas back to the van and keep driving.

The afternoon's at its apex when Mark speaks.

In a small town indistinguishable from the others they’ve driven through, in this state and the ones previous to it. There’s a Main Street with an IGA and a handful of diners and bars; a place to rent fishing and camping equipment; a hardware store with inventory he can recite from memory: everything from double AA batteries to bullets to commercial sized barbeques. There's a liquor emporium, a drugstore and ice cream parlor, and businesses that must be fronts for something, because how can a yarn shop and a used bookstore build a customer base here? 

“Why do you want to stop?”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t have a strong rejoinder, so he pulls into an empty space in front of Smokey’s Bar & BBQ and kills the engine. Mark wants him to walk up and down the main drag, investigate each and every side street; to step into a few establishments and bullshit with whoever’s behind the counter. “I’m curious. You can’t learn anything by watching people, Jack. If you want to figure shit out, you have to talk to them.” He declines. Elects to sit under a shade tree in the town square, eat an ice cream sandwich and study their maps. He’s talked to plenty of new people this year. He deserves an afternoon off.

There’s another hundred fifty miles of driving before they reach their campsite. He’d infinitely prefer to sleep on this bench, pillows and blankets optional. It's more than halfway to August. They’ve got time left in their travel budget, but he’s ready for a real bed in his very own room. For journey’s end and what comes next. 

He's met more than a few people on this trip who are happy living the itinerant life, who've assured him he'll never make it to his final destination, that once he gets a taste of moving he won't be able to stop. He's received plenty of unsolicited advice: run river raft trips or work at a dude ranch; groom trails; take people who can't do anything for themselves into the mountains. Set up their tents and cook their food for them. Keep them from being eaten by bears. He smiles pleasantly and replies "Something to think about," or "I never considered that, I'll definitely look into it."

Those are lies. He already has a plan. He's very satisfied with it, and sees no reason to deviate.

Earning a steady paycheck; finding a place to live; not defaulting on his student loans; not being forced back to Shit Town to live with Mom and her new boyfriend, who she moved into the house shortly after he left. (He hopes this one is a serious improvement over the previous ones, but it's Mom and it helps to be realistic.) He kicked these particular to-do items from his list down the road. Hard and long. Recently, he's caught up to them. Let them niggle at him. They've encouraged him to make a few phone calls, some key decisions.

He hasn’t shared this information with Mark. Very soon. Not yet.

Mark ambles over and joins him on the bench. Skims clever fingers down his neck, under the collar of his t-shirt – a discreet caress - before bringing them to rest on the back of the bench, where he maintains contact via a continuously circling thumb below his shoulder blades. “We’re going to stay here for a bit. I’ve set aside some cash, for emergencies, and now I want to spend it. I’m done with the tent and the car. I’m done with soggy beans from a can.” His voice roughens, drops half an octave. “And I am done with outdoor quickies.” As Mark says it, he gives him that look: smirky belligerence. _Want to fight? Because I will go to the mat for this._

He gives Mark his own look: neutral verging on exasperated. _No, I don’t want to fight you for the right to eat Dinty Moore, sleep on the ground and not fuck._ “You really want this? Really want to stay here?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. But this is it. You’re not the only one who’s done. It’s ten, eleven hours to Portland. When we’re finished here, we get in the car, drive straight through without stopping. Deal?”

Surprised and delighted that he capitulated so easily, Mark wipes the smile from his face and nods solemnly. “Absolutely.” Leaps off the bench. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m going to find us a place to stay.”

He examines his t-shirt and shorts, which are in fact Mark's t-shirt and shorts. They've given up, for the time being, on yours versus mine. He idly worries someone might confuse them for one of those creepy couples that match. One more reason to live in a room with furniture. There are no obvious stains. He sniffs under his arm. He's smelled riper. Decides he’s sufficiently presentable to hazard a lying down nap. He probably won’t be rousted by bored local cops.

He’s ordering a custom saddle for his riding moose when, with an excited shove to the chest and a “Jack! Quit your snoring!”, Mark wakes him up and informs him he’s rented a room in a motel on the outskirts of town. For two weeks. “One week costs practically the same as three days! And two weeks costs the same as one week!”

Mark’s math doesn’t add up, but his siesta has left him too woozy to check where he skipped a step. He sits up and rubs dry palms over his face; tongues loose the scum coating his teeth. Mark pulls a canteen of lukewarm water from his backpack and waits, silently, while he gulps it down.

He sighs and it's...beleaguered. It's the first time they've had this particular conversation; it's not the first time they've had this type of conversation. Constantly having to decide when to resist Mark and when to ride along, it's not what he's used to. He misses, occasionally, the old days, when thinking was a bonus activity and he went days electing to sit this one out. “Isn’t that a long time?” Mark should have asked before spending all that money. “Why are we staying this long?” He should have pressed Mark for details before giving him carte blanche to rent a room.

At the motel, Mark continues his sales pitch. “I’ve got a good feeling about this place.”

He continues to let his skepticism show. “Explain.” He’s not that tired (big of a pushover).

“It’s pretty, right? Really pretty, one of the nicest places we’ve been so far. You said it yourself, in the truck. You didn’t need to say it. You were thinking it. I could hear you.”

“So this is about the scenery,” he muses.

He tries to see it through Mark’s eyes. It’s not easy. Inside, the vomitous carpets and curtains; the single, soiled armchair; the dubiously patterned bedspreads have been permeated by the ubiquitous, stunningly pungent motel smell of citrus cleaner, cigarettes and sweaty feet. Outside, thin strips of powder blue paint hang from the wall, undressing crumbling cement blocks. He experimentally kicks one of the plastic chairs arranged under the window. 

“Think they’ll hold?”

“You’re being purposefully obtuse, Jack. Snobby, too. When did you get too good for a shitty motel? Tonight, you can drink beer and stare at your beloved mountains from right outside your front door. And there’s more. A lot more. You’ll see.”

“I don't get it. You hate small towns. Do you seriously want me to believe you'd rather stay here, for weeks, instead of drive to a city where men aren't obligated to wear cowboy boots and bellow 'America! Love it or leave it!'” Where their first, second and third thoughts aren't unspoken relief they can _pass_.

They’ve been volleying back and forth: half joking, half serious. But when asked this particular question Mark becomes pensive. He studies the pavement, traces the toe of his sneaker along a crack in the cement while he turns the question this way and that.

“You're right. I still hate them, but this place is different. It’s hard to explain. It’s just…a feeling. You get it when you’ve moved around as much I have.” Mark remembers a key point of his argument and perks up; eagerly seeks, then insistently maintains eye contact. “Did you see, when we were driving in, the sign for the hospital? I asked, it’s not far. A couple of towns over.”

“Are you sure it’s a people hospital?”

********

By the middle of the second week, he learns that Mark’s rented their room for another two weeks. He’s not the tiniest bit surprised. Protests because he should, because that's what he does, but Mark, who's parsed their earlier conversation like a lawyer, like a priest, dismantles his argument with ease. “You said when we were finished we’d go to Portland, but I’m not finished.”

“When will you be finished?”

“Soon. I promise. You’re having fun, aren’t you? And we’ve got a little time, yes?”

“Yeah. But that’s not what’s worrying me. It’s just…this isn’t part of the plan.”

“Your plan.”

“Correct.”

Mark’s expression turns mulish. Mockingly passive. Disagreeably agreeable. It's a face he hasn't seen in months, the one Mark presents to authority figures who threaten to _restrict his freedom_. It's discomfiting, seeing that face again, being on the receiving end of it. He hears the wheels turn, a scheme being formulated. But it’s late, and they did have fun today. (Fun that, since you asked, involved skeet shooting, though he knows there are absolutely no circumstances that justify either of them coming within a hundred feet of a gun – even if it’s “only a sport rifle, practically a BB gun.” Next time he'll definitely say no.)

More importantly, they’re having this conversation on one of the room's two beds, and Mark’s next to him, legs tangled with his, wearing only boxers. Even as he sulks and simmers Mark's fingers trace abstract patterns into his skin, an unconscious suggestion of what they should do next.

Jack thinks about yesterday: the tall, damp meadow grass and the green smelling air; the sheepherder and the beaver lodge. The pine needle forest trails and the dusty, sun-baked switchbacks. The rocky, hands and knees scramble where he almost rolled his ankle. The sandwiches and the peace. He thinks there are many, many things he’d rather do than fail to talk sense into Mark.

He snaps the waistband of Mark's underwear. “Take these off.”

“What? Why?” But Mark’s already half-hard, already wiggling out of his boxers. "Do mine too." He swings a leg over him, braces arms on either side of him and now they’re both hard, bumping against each other, searching for the right fit, the right friction. Mark swoops in for a kiss – shallow, deep, deeper. It feels good, the way they move together; the way, after all these years of practice, they know how to make it feel good. Mark’s weight on him, shifting and pressing. Mark’s hipbones, rotating gently against his. Mark’s tongue in his mouth, slipping along the inside of his lip. Mark’s teeth, blunt then sharp, nipping his ear. Mark’s dick, rubbing first his stomach, then his own dick. Soon he's wrapped tight around him ( _closerheneedshimcloser_ ) and murmuring, as Mark drops feather light kisses on his neck, "I want, I want."

Mark stops kissing him, stops moving against him. "What do you want, Jack?”   

“Just this. This is good.” 

********

By the middle of week four, Mark has a new proposition for him. “I met this guy, our age, when we first arrived in town. He’s kind of, but not really LDS.” He looks at him blankly, and Mark rolls his eyes, impatient with his ignorance, with his inability to keep up. “A Mormon. I know. Don’t look at me like that. Obviously, he doesn’t smoke, but he’s pretty cool. He and his dad work as live-in groundskeepers, caretakers, whatever for these rich people who have a ranch, a ways out of town. They’re always throwing huge, crazy parties, so he’s not as clueless as you might think. He gets it, and we’re all going to hell anyway, so who gives a shit how.”

A strangled in the crib sound of dissent erupts from his mouth. _I don’t think that’s how it works? Back in Utah I read this article, in a coffee shop?_ Mark barrels right over it. “We went RV-ing. Next week I might go fishing with him. They buy tags to hunt elk, when it's in season. And then they dress it and eat it. I have to do that with them. Anyway, they’ve got a place. It’s right across from an abandoned mine, mountains everywhere. It needs some work, and they don’t have time to fix it up. Rich people are really fucking demanding, and his dad is kind of old and has bad knees. So I offered to fix it up for them. They’re thinking about it. Whether we could stay there for free while I fix it up. Which means we’re not locked into it or anything. Because I know we _have a plan_ and can’t stay long.”

Because they’re going to run out of money in a couple of weeks. Because he doesn't want to stay here. “Is the water safe to drink?”

“They took care of that shit years ago."

“Needs some work?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You’re not worried what they’ll say? About the two of us living there? Last time I checked, Mormons weren’t into weed. Or two guys doing it.” 

“I told you, they’re only sort of Mormon. I didn’t lie to them, but trust me. It’s a don’t ask, don’t tell situation.”

Of course.

********

 _The place_ is like something he'd find at sleepaway camp. He never went, but it's similar to how he's always pictured it. A one room, A-frame log cabin nestled at the bottom of a hill in a narrow valley with three hundred degree views of mountains. As advertised, within sprinting distance of a wild wild west era silver and lead mine. All that remains of it, besides the toxic run-off, are hummocks of gravel, piles of twisted, rusted metal, and a faded three story building anchored to the hillside with deck planks. From the sagging front steps of the cabin he sees their potential neighbors: a few houses scattered across tall grass and short bushes, across either dozens or hundreds of acres. It’s hard to get a handle on the proportions, here in _big sky country_.

Mark didn't exaggerate. The cabin needs work, inside and out, but it’s possible to live in. Assuming you're careful to avoid the rot, and it doesn't rain. There’s a fridge and a stove and a futon couch. A working toilet and a nozzle that dribbles out warm enough water for a shower. Two naked lightbulbs hang from long wires; shine welcoming, if dim, yellow light. One is off-center, over a tiny, clearly homemade circular table with matching stools, the other is above the mattresses in the loft sleeping area. In the middle of the room there’s a pot-bellied, wood burning stove.

“Too bad we’ll be gone before it gets cold. I've always wanted to use one of these.” 

Mark huffs an indecipherable reply, mind already elsewhere: kicking the tires, mumbling about the supplies he’d need, speculating how he can sell this to them.  

“Got to get in touch with my boss.”  

“Are you sure you can do this? On your own?”

“Been doing this for almost four years. I've learned a thing or two. And this isn’t a complicated place. Just hasn’t been kept up."

“How’re you going to pay for it?”

“First rule of construction. Never pay out of pocket.”

When Mark finishes his inspection, he smiles. He struts toward him dick first. Like he’s on a runway, not short steps away in a twenty by twenty room so thick with dust he’s battling the urge to sneeze. Like Mark’s not obviously trying to manipulate him with a seat of the pants scheme that has no chance of succeeding. Like he's can't hear the drums on the horizon, the footsteps of what's marching directly towards him - a decision about what he wants more: Mark or this future he’s planned and schemed and made himself more broke for, that he's on the verge of making real, no more fevered dreams of longing to be part of something greater. A sardonic voice editorializes: _Two roads in a wood!_

He can’t help it, he snickers. What choice does he have? Cry? Rage? Sulk? Grovel? Explain. He’s done all of that, more than once, and it’s gotten them exactly here.

It is what it is. Whatever happens, happens. He's said it for years without truly comprehending what it means, but now he fully, finally understands. Thinks he might be ready to stop feeling bad about his decisions; to stop second guessing himself, worrying - even as he plows inexorably forward - when the other boulder will land on his head.

And Mark stops. _Blushes_.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just…” He waves his arm, encompassing the room. “This place. It’s not bad, and like you said, you could make it better.” He smiles. “It’s pretty cool, that you found it, that you want to help fix it up. I’ll ask around town. If I can find some temporary work, if you can convince them to let you do it, we can stay. I’ll stay. For a few weeks. Until it’s time to go.”

Mark grins, triumphant. Incapable of maintaining a poker face if his life depended on it.  

********

Their last evening at the motel he’s packing their bags, hate watching _Dawson’s Creek_ , when Mark waltzes into their room, finger to his lip demanding silence. He's clutching an Idaho Famous Potatoes box and wearing a shit-eating grin that makes him awfully nervous. “I got us something,” Mark whispers. "And no, it's not spuds."

He frowns but, as requested, turns off the television, not bothering to hide his dismay. He knows what’s in the box. A fucking gun. Multiple guns. First skeet shooting, next elk hunting, and finally this. 

With great care, Mark sets the box on the bed. Still with the grin, he gestures for him to open it, and Jack worries that inside there's something worse than a gun. Grenades? A rocket launcher? Has Mark been hanging out with Branch Davidian types? Survivalists, each with an elaborate bunker and seven wives, preparing for the end times that are nigh? He takes a deep breath and opens the box.

Inside, asleep on a towel, is a puppy. A black - no. A very dark brown puppy with short hair that looks pretty soft. A blaze of white down its chest. Floppy ears and floppier paws, one of which is also white.

It’s a fucking dog.

Mark bounces with glee. "You should have seen your face! What did you think was in there? A bomb?" He tugs his shirt. “So cool, right? Figured it couldn't hurt to have some protection.”

“Yup. I’m crapping my shorts as we speak.”

“She’ll grow! Fast! To be big and scary. I saw her mom, it’s going to happen. Anyway, I’m going to get a gun too. When we have more money.”

He ignores him. Experience has taught him a valuable lesson – concentrate on one fight at a time. “Dogs cost money.” They’re still whispering, and they should stop. It’s asleep. He’s annoyed. Wants to make the following point as clearly as possible. “We’re running out of money to feed ourselves.”

“They gave me enough food for the next month. It’s in the van. Plus, they were going to kill it. You wouldn’t want a baby to die, would you? That’s not very nurse-y of you.” When he shrugs, indifferent to the fate of unwanted puppies in general and this one in particular, Mark scowls and drops onto the bed, close to the box. He hovers a protective hand over the dog, like he’s threatened to drown it himself, this instant. “You are cold, Jack.” Trumps him with, “This was your idea, after all. I’m only doing what you told me to.”

“What?” He has no idea what Mark’s accusing him of, so Mark fills in the blanks. Recites the entire years-ago conversation, including details on where and when it took place (the library basement couch, March 1995); what he was wearing (a sweatshirt and jeans); and the weather (cloudy and thirty-five degrees).

“I was joking. You’d been giving me blue balls for months. I thought my dick was going to chop itself off, just to put me out of my misery.”

“Like I said, I pay attention.”

“We’re leaving soon.”

Mark says nothing.

“I’m leaving soon.”

“I know.”

“One month, that's all I've got. I've told you this. I have to be there on a specific day for my interview, and I can't drive into town a couple of hours before." His voice is high and tight, rising. "I don’t want to, it's the last thing I want, but I will go without you if I have to. And I have to try this. I have to.” His stomach is a fist.

“Don’t freak out. I’m coming with you, I said I would. I want to. I'll be done by then, no problem.”

In the pause that follows, as Mark looks gooily at the dog and brushes the lightest of fingers through its fur, he can't help but ask. “You’re not scared, are you? Of going to Portland?”

“What, me?” Mark fluffs up his feathers. “Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just…new and big. I’m working something out and you…” Mark doesn’t acknowledge where he’s headed, doesn’t even blink, and he loses his nerve. “A lot could go right. A lot could go wrong. I’m scared, a little. More than a little.”

“That’s not surprising. You're scared of everything,” Mark says with relish.

“Not me, though. I'm not scared of anything.” He curls his lip, and says it with almost identical certainty.

“Just checking.”

*******

The next morning - sunny, cloudless, and hot (there seem to be nothing but sunny and cloudless mornings, afternoons, and evenings in this part of Idaho) - they move their army duffels, groceries and essential milk crates into the cabin. They shut the door and lock it. He makes one of the mattresses with sheets they find in the trunk that doubles as a nightstand, and slides it over to the window. He likes having a view from bed. Mark puts the groceries in the fridge, gives the dog water to drink and a sock to chew on; spreads newspapers across the floor and tells it to stay on them. They close the shades and leave the windows open; stand in the manmade twilight and listen. It’s hushed, but he listens more and hears in the distance a truck bumping along the gravel road, chains rasping, the thump and whine of a far-off screen door opening and closing. The wind moving through the grass, the trees. 

Mark steps closer and tilts his face up: waiting, wanting, needing to be kissed; signaling with hesitant, tugging and roving hands that he should strip, that while he’s at it he should take off Mark’s clothes too.

They stumble up the ladder, tumble onto the mattress and dust motes float, aimless, in the sleepy thick summer air. He straddles Mark, takes time to look at him. His wiry body, muscular arms, thin lips and bruised, sleepy eyes; his broad shoulders, sun-lightened hair, and sensitive hands. He skates heat sticky fingers across skin that’s white in the center but further out is shaded dark brown, light brown, red – a map of their months on the road.

He tongues Mark’s nipples, first left then right then left again; sips the beads of sweat that dot his collarbones, that pool in the hollow of this throat. He kisses (licks, bites) his way down. Stomach muscles flutter against his tongue; the thick, hard line of Mark’s dick twitches and bobs against first his chest, then his neck. He touches first his tongue, then his lips to Mark’s balls; brings them into his mouth and with a groan Mark spreads his legs, tugs his hair. He watches Mark’s head tilt back – how it exposes the long line of his throat. How he touches himself, reaches for him with a hand, a foot. He rubs a wet finger along his asshole, back and forth, back forth until Mark’s starfished on the bed, one leg hitched over the lip of the dormer window, the other off the mattress, heel rubbing rhythmically along the floor. When Mark is loose and panting; stroking himself; mindlessly, softly from habit chanting _Jack Jack Jack_. When he's pushing against his finger in an attempt to get it inside, then he slides in a spit slick finger, no lube necessary because they’re both slippery damp, dripping all over and this is new. He rests his cheek on the silky tight expanse bordered by Mark’s hipbone; inhales the earthy scent that he will never never get enough of. He nudges Mark’s hand aside, replaces it with his own hand, his own mouth. Curls his finger and presses just so, once and again and again. Until Mark moves fast, faster and he's hanging on, until Mark makes that noise and comes undone.

After, he lies pressed firmly to Mark’s side, face buried in his neck, nuzzling, mouthing it blindly. It’s too hot to be doing this, but Mark’s rubbing the spot just under his head and he’s jelly. Hungry, seeking jelly. 

He slips a finger inside Mark’s mouth, hooks it behind his bottom teeth and tugs. “Use this.”

“Come up here and I will.”

“Lazy bastard.”

They pull on shorts and t-shirts and Mark cleans up after the dog, who’s shit everywhere and no, he’s not helping. _It’s not his dog._

In a grease-spattered toaster oven with a fraying cord he heats up tater tots and hot dogs. “Might be nice to have a grill. One of those little ones you see at Wal-Mart. We can take it with us.” He grabs a six pack and the tray of food, Mark the dog and a blanket, and they eat outside, in a sheltered patch behind the house. "It's nicer - lots more space - than in the front. The deck should go here."

He watches Mark smoke a joint. He's taking a break, until he gets his real job. Yes, he misses it.

“A few towns over there are rich people, lots of them. They're always building - new houses, new condos. Bet I could find some steady work.”

“Hmmm...”

“Not for sure, sure. But it’s worth checking out, right?”

“Right.”

“And you’re going to the hospital?”

“Tomorrow, if you let me have the car. But don’t get your hopes up. It’s not like I know anyone there. They might not be hiring. The work might suck. It could take weeks, and I don’t have weeks.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He’s feeling bold. “And I don't like having landlords who believe if I went to brainwashing camp or converted I’d see the light and stop fucking guys. I don’t care if it’s free. Or how nice they are. It's weird.”

Mark is, to start, annoyed that he's used the plural of fucking. He follows it up with contrition. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, really sorry. I forget, that you don't think about these things the same way I do." He scootches closer and puts a placating hand on his thigh. "It’s just for a few weeks. Until we find something. Until we go, don’t look at me like that, I know we’re going. It’s good to have options, though.”

“Not if I have to lie.”

“I thought you didn’t mind lying.”

“To be safe? Always. For a job? Sure. For a place to live? Ok, if I really needed it. But for this? No.”

For once, Mark lets him have the last word.

Mark pulls the sleeping dog onto his cross-legged lap, fondles its ears. “We should name her.”

“You name it. It’s yours. But not something stupid like”

“Killer? Homo Defender?”

“How about Chester? For old times sake?”

They watch, side by side, Mark's shoulder bumping his, Mark's knee resting on his leg, a luxurious, drawn-out sunset. The sky and the mountains wash orange, violet, indigo, inky blue then finally, near ten o’clock, black; but he can still see the toothy peaks, silhouetted against the midnight sky. He’s watched it every night for a month, and it hasn’t gotten old. He fetches their sweatshirts from the truck as the fireflies come out by the dozens, the stars by the millions, and his heart beats. Steady. Content.

In the loft it’s Mark’s turn to straddle him, one hand braced on his chest, the other wrapped round his own dick. Through the window the moon shines directly on them. Like they planned it this way. Mark rubs his wet slit and brings his thumb to his mouth, watches him lick it clean.

“Your face,” Mark snickers. “Your stupid face.” Mark slicks his thumb again and brings it close. He sucks it into his mouth, bites softly on the tip.

“I know you love it.” He’s beaming. Can feel it, can’t stop, doesn’t want to.

Mark hums his assent. They kiss and kiss, quiet to start but soon louder because no one’s around, it's the two of them and only them. Mark’s found the lube. He slips a hand between them and says “Open up. Let me in.” Asks “You ready? Because I'm going to fuck you, just how you like it.” His face, his whole body is pink, is red, is glowing; he gets harder and somehow that’s possible. Mark’s off him, reaching past him, grabbing a pillow and sticking it under his ass. He slicks up and pushes in, until he can feel bones pressed flush, grinding against him. Mark maneuvers one leg then another over his shoulders, lifting him off the mattress; and yes, this is how he likes it, strong and deep, with a sharp edge. With each solid thrust he hears himself, a groan tapering to a hiss. He grips each side of the mattress and silently chants _faster now faster harder_. He touches himself and

Mark smirks and slows down, down, down.

In, out. In, out. In, out. The barest slide.

“This is what I like? No. Are you trying to put me to sleep? You could put some effort into it.”

Mark is unmoved.  “You’re so greedy. What’s the rush? We got nowhere to be. And haven’t we already today? Twice.”

He’s not wrong, but he tries once more. “I could turn over?” It’s impossible for Mark to go slow from behind. Sometimes, it’s the principle of the thing.

“You know I like to watch you.”

Watch him twist and writhe and sweat until there’s nothing in the world but Mark, Mark, Mark.

And for a while he does. Wriggle and clench and stretch, which only encourages Mark to pull out and rub the very tip of his dick against him; to pretzel his knees around his ears so he can kiss him; to slip back in and hold his wrists in a loose grip so he won't touch himself.

He doesn’t mind begging (who is he kidding, he loves to beg), but fuck you Mark for never fulfilling a request without arguing the specifics. So he lets Mark do the work of holding him in place. He releases his death grip on the sheets. Stops gnawing his bottom lip and closes his eyes. Lets it all go.

He feels the lube leaking and sliding, sticking and clotting. In his hair, on his skin, in his crack. On Mark’s hair and skin. On his balls which gently slap against him as Mark slides oh so carefully, oh so thoughtfully back and forth, back and forth. He smells on Mark oil and weed and paint thinner, dirt and grass and sun. Already fading, undercut by the neutral, gloppy scent of lube and the less neutral scent of fucking in a small, closed space. Mark’s still holding him up, not resting his weight on him, but he can sense his muscles moving and shifting, arms taut, spine undulating. His legs slide along Mark's shoulders. He smells perspiration trapped in his armpit hair; hears in Mark’s breathing his effort to go slow, hold himself back.

It’s cruel, it’s tender, it’s crazy making. He’s getting used to it. This doesn’t have to go anywhere, and he’d survive. It goes on and on, building by degrees, the weight of his need holding him in place, but he breathes and doesn’t worry what comes next.

Mark rolls in a new way, and he slits his eyes open. He’s staring at him, trying to figure out where he went. Mark shifts position, frees his legs. Lowers his full weight on him, hard flat stomach against his dick, contact at last. Breaking into the space he made for himself. He moves off-kilter: slow slow fast, fast slow slow, fast fast slow. 

This is good, better than good; but he still needs more, needs more right now. And Mark will never change. Will never be the safe, the practical, the wise choice. But he’s wanted him for years, has him today, and that’s enough because. Because he loves him.

Whatever he’s said satisfies Mark. Or Mark has started to read his mind, because he wraps a hand around him, too hard just right, and lets himself go.

Mark falls sleeps on camphor and cedar smelling sheets: sprawled on his back, arms thrown over his head, faintly snoring. Too satisfied to drag him close, too content to need comfort. Jack writes on his skin with a soft finger, until he’s covered in a subliminal message. _Always remember this day. Never forget how it felt._ _Let this never get old. Let this never end._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And 80K words later, that's all she wrote. If you made it this far, I would love to hear what you think. It gets lonely over here in micro-fandom land...
> 
> The chapter titles for 16 and 17 are a nod to the Ezra Furman album _Transangelic Exodus_ , which many moons ago served as initial inspiration for the road trip section of this fic. 
> 
> America's national and state parks, forests, and wilderness areas are a brilliant, amazing resource that everyone who can should take advantage of. 
> 
> I've made a playlist that includes, but isn't limited to, almost all the songs and/or artists name checked in the story: **[CLICK HERE FOR THE PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/user/jecje95t1j6xak5gb55atewc8/playlist/3RYxMvhnYEDNTu423e9xC6?si=bSE_KFEHT4SfZivkKmEwHg)**
> 
> This project started with a vid, because The Violent Femmes sang the story of this movie back in 1983: **[CLICK HERE FOR THE VID](https://vimeo.com/291267739)** ( **PW: asyouare** ) It's hosted on Vimeo.


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